Lost in Bronte - A Jane Eyre Story
by Dreamatorium
Summary: Based on "Lost in Austen." Ruby Bunting, a huge Bronte fan from the 21st century, one day runs into Jane Eyre, who happens to have stepped through a portal straight into her backyard. Intrigued to see where Jane came from, Ruby steps through the portal, taking Jane's place. She soon encounters Mr. Rochester and attemps to step in Jane's footsteps...
1. Prologue

**A/N : **The idea of writing a story of a 21st century girl suddenly landing in the world of fiction, sprung from the BBC mini series "Lost in Austen". I felt like it had to be done again. This time for my favourite novel "Jane Eyre."

I'm excited to hear your thoughts on what I've written so far. I appreciate your opinion and support. It really helps when the going gets tough to know that there are many of you out there who are as passionate about the novel as me!

 **Disclaimer :** I do not own the plot or the characters of "Jane Eyre". They belong to the wonderful Charlotte Brontë. The main idea is based on "Lost in Austen".

Thanks for your reviews and general support. Enjoy!

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

I was not the kind of girl who enjoyed the thought of spontaneity, or rather, I enjoyed only the _thought_ of adventure, but I never dared make rash decisions, never left my comfort zone, never took the leap, if the danger of uncertain and unknown territory loomed ahead. But that was precisely why I needed to break free from the prison I had created for myself; a prison, which solely existed in my mind. Perhaps that was why I was just the person who needed an adventure, a little touch of magic, a miracle even.

To this day, I am still not certain whether my experiences at Thornfield Hall were real or simply imagined, but they are a part of my reality now, and while I can most probably never go back, the experiences I had when I stepped into the world of my favourite novel and lived and breathed the very air Jane herself has lived and breathed, somehow set me free - clichéd as it may sound.

I am about to tell you the story of how I stepped in the footsteps of my favourite literary heroine. It was, perhaps, some act of fate that lead me there, although I do not really believe in such things. Even now, I still have trouble wrapping my mind around the idea that one of my greatest fantasies actually came true, but - real or not - my time at Thornfield gave me the boost I needed to finally start believing in myself and learn to grab life by the horns. Little by little, I could finally break free from the fears that had held me back all my life. Perhaps I could not change my past, but I was now ready to shape my future. Nothing seemed impossible, and that was certainly a wonderful way to live.

Jane was, and still is, my idol. She went her own path. Now I wish to do as she did. I care for myself, and will not compromise when it comes to the values and beliefs I hold dear, nor will I let anyone change me.


	2. Introductions

**CHAPTER I - INTRODUCTIONS**

There was no possibility of taking a walk the day I disappeared. The month of October was once again upon us, and even though the English countryside is no stranger to wind and rain, I must confess that I longed to spend more time in the fresh air, even though the wind was now icy and the rain pelting down from a dismal sky.

I was sitting on the window seat in my bedroom, peering outside over the broad sill, in between reading. The book on my lap was the one I always returned to in times of need or sorrow: Charlotte Brontë's wonderful masterpiece _Jane Eyre_ , following the journey of a girl, quite like myself, trying to find her place in the world, despite her harrowing past.

It is a story of a spirited girl, who stood up against the evils she faced until she finally found herself a true home with her true love. The ending is of course quite romantic, but the story is a dark one. It is not a story of dependence, nor is it a fairy tale, although one might argue that it contains fairy tale elements.

Every time I was feeling mellow or in need of inspiration, I patched myself up again with a little Brontë. It gave me hope.

To me, Jane's story is one of survival. She fights her way through hard times, for her life is not void of struggle and strife, until she finally finds happiness. Yes, she ends up marrying the romantic lead, I do realise that, and I admit that it is quite satisfying to have a fairly happy conclusion to a tale filled with so much misery. For me this is a pleasurable way to end a book, even if predictable.

I am a softy after all and I need a bit of "happily ever after" in my life when I long to escape. I tend to escape always when I read _Jane Eyre_. I always think of the story of _Beauty and the Beast_ as a comparison. Jane is similar to Belle who also married a 'Beast' of sorts. I only use the word 'beast' here, because Mr. Rochester often seems scowling and intimidating, caught in his own negativity.

But it is with him that Jane does succeeds in finding her happiness against all odds. No matter how much hardship she hasto endure, she thrives nonetheless. Essentially, she left a troubled past behind her and ended up meeting her match in an equally troubled man, even if they are troubled by different matters.

Rochester is certainly not the easiest of companions, and let us not ignore how unstable he is. While Jane was bullied and victimised, she remained pure of heart. Rochester, on the other hand, seems to have a very dark view of the world, which is why Jane's 'light' was the only thing that lead him to freedom, so to speak. She could be seen as his beacon of hope. Well, that might be overstating things, but I swoon over the love Rochester and Jane share, despite everything that happened between them, because they are a good match when it comes down to it. They seem to lift each other up.

One could say Jane and Rochester are two souls akin to each other who became each other's home. Both lost, finally found. There I go again…I simply love all that drama! Not to worry, it's just the romantic in me speaking. This side of me simply cannot be undermined, so you have to forgive me for the occasional 'swooning outbursts.' I know they can be difficult to bear. In my daily life, I need to keep a straight-face and be realistic and rational, which is not the easiest of tasks for me. It is one of the things I am certainly not. I tend to idealise, to romanticise, to dream, to live in my own little bubble.

* * *

However, I digress. I was talking about my fascination for _Jane Eyre_. It is certainly not purely a romantic story. The story goes far beyond that, Jane leaving her orphaned past behind her and maturing to womanhood. Another point is the fact that Rochester and Jane only got together after he was "emasculated" due to the fire, which burns down Thornfield Hall. Due to his blindness, Mr. Rochester loses control and therefore becomes dependent on Jane. He is rendered weak, knocked off his pedestal of superiority, not only taking a blow to the head, but to his ego as well.

The character of Jane Eyre became a role-model to me from the moment I first read the book. She never let herself be devalued, despite the fact that she was tempted. She momentarily gave up happiness (of course she believed it to be forever) in order to save herself from losing her self-respect. She could never live in sin with Mr. Rochester, giving up her values and principles simply to be with him. That would be the easy way out. I believe the fact that Jane Eyre does not choose this path shows her true and utter strength, something I truly admire.

Imagine a girl in our time, the 21st century, running away from her own happiness because her loved one is already hitched. The circumstances of the marriage would devalue its validity, and a modern girl would probably make a compromise. I am sure of it. A girl of this day and age would sleep with Mr. Rochester (to put it bluntly) without thinking of the consequences, whether societal or emotional.

Unfortunately, young girls nowadays do not value themselves the way they should. Physical intimacy has become a game to many, a means to "have fun," maybe even a currency, the emotional damages unpreventable when men only desire the girl with no expectations, rather than trying to actually find someone they could truly love. The girl is often the one left feeling worthless, like a toy, used only as a 'tool for pleasure.' This does not always have to be a bad thing, as long as both parties are on the same page, but when the girl believes she will eventually win the guy's heart and start a relationship with him, these situations end up in a real mess, quite frankly.

One must also consider, that many girls allow themselves to be victimised and used, because they do not want to lose their special someone (although, of course, it is doubtful whether chasing after someone who does not value you is a very good use of your time.) But all snide comments aside. Oftentimes, the reason people allow themselves to be disrespected or undervalued is because they hope their love interest might change with time. It seems they somehow believe that they will prove themselves worthy of a relationship to him in the end, if they just keep doing the guy's bidding. But one must be clever and logical in these situations: people do not change their behaviour and there is no point in trying to change people (such a downer, right?)

I have become sick and tired of these 'casual' interactions, hearing it from friends and experiencing it first-hand. It cannot be denied that most men "just wanna have fun." (See what I did there?) That is what keeps bringing me back to desiring a true gentleman, like Mr. Rochester. At least his heart is in the right place, although, let's face it, he is complicated, to put it mildly.

His soul is agonised, twisted and contorted and his very existence pains him. Maybe all he is, is a grumpy old man, but Jane suffers at his hand, because he also manipulates her, plays his little games of cat and mouse, leaving Jane breathless at every turn, but all this emotion is not visible to the onlooker. She bottles up all her feelings, only to reveal a cool and collected demeanour to the outside world.

When it comes to matters of the heart, one always has to be careful, whether in Jane's time or in the present day. Rochester toys with Jane's emotions, tests her feelings for him, leaving her in discomfort. It is a different kind of game men play nowadays, but even though many girls act like they are not bothered by simply serving a guy's 'need,' (please pardon my crudeness) without truly being acknowledged and appreciated as a human being, I am sure they are hurt and emotionally scarred by these displays of disrespect from men.

That is why I have lost faith in the male species of my age. I sometimes ask myself the question: Do they value us girls anymore, or are we just there for their 'entertainment'? What has become of the long-lasting connections of mind and spirit? Why does nobody take the time anymore to open up to one another, and why is being emotionally vulnerable seen as a weakness?

You see, dear reader, I am troubled and frustrated at this modern day and age, and I am sure you have noticed my writing style is also not quite the style of a 21st century girl, at least not at all times, although I do tend to speak freely. Reading so much Brontë seems to have influenced my way of writing as well as my way of thinking. Of course, I realise some of my expectations may be unrealistic, but I do not mind being disappointed if I eventually find what I am looking for, and if I don't that's okay, too. Although I must admit, I am not sure if I really know what I want (which may be the actual problem.)

I am not very much bothered by whether or not I have a boyfriend at the moment, though, but there are times when I do feel lonely. The problem is, men have always left me heartbroken, and I feel I have become closed-off now. Would it be so bad to live out the rest of my life aspiring to find happiness solely in other domains, having a career, building a life for myself? For a girl that is so unconcerned with men, I sure do talk about them a lot, don't I? Maybe I am not meant to be with anyone at the moment. Maybe I am better off by myself…for now. I still wish to find that one person who truly understands me on a deeper level eventually, as we all do. At present, however, I have experienced so many let-downs due to my idealism that I do not know any more what I can believe in, so I think it is wise to focus on myself momentarily, as well as my own growth as a person.

* * *

At present I am doing an internship at a small publishing house in the neighbouring town of Netherfield. It is only an hour drive away, and it is also the place where I studied and met my best friend, Amanda, who became the pillar of strength I could lean on when I was truly down. She keeps me sane just like my love of reading does. When I read, I feel understood. I feel like I can stomach my disappointment and the degrading way I have been treated. Reading has always been one of my favourite occupations.

Yet, today I feel a dark cloud has swept over me, the weather outside mirroring my own mood. I am sure the expression my face now wears, is one of longing. My body is present here in Blackfield in the cottage I live in with my father, but my mind is miles away. I have been staring out of the window for so long, thinking all these worrying thoughts, that my vision has become blurry. I feel sometimes that I dream my life away, but the world in my head is so much more pleasant than harsh reality…most of the time.

Sometimes though, not being able to escape from my own trains of thought can be like hell. I torture myself with so many unnecessary thoughts. I overthink things constantly, and to be honest, it is tiring. Maybe all I need is a break from myself. On some days, I would rather delve into a good book, rather than face my miserable existence – and, yes, I know this is a tad dramatic and perhaps I am taking things too far now, but I am afraid that I am prone to negativity and feeling amiss. Perhaps this is one of the reasons _Jane Eyre_ is my go-to novel when I need comfort.

I have always dreamt of being loved against all odds and being treated in a courtly, gentlemanly manner by all men, as opposed to the rough and ready way guys my age usually treat girls. Do you not know how to hold open a door for a lady? Yes, I know, if we are talking feminism, I should not desire to be protected and helped by men, but I hold the door open for the opposite sex as well. It is simply the courteous thing to do and desiring to be respected does not make me in any way less independent. I simply appreciate good manners.

During my years at school and university, no guy could ever measure up to my idea of the perfect gentleman. It just so happens that I have standards and that I will not simply settle for the next best thing. Not when it comes to men, and not when it comes to my career goals. I strive to "suck the marrow out of life," as it were, without "choking on the bone." That is a little quote from one of my favourite TV series _Lost in Austen_. (A little insider reference there.)

There has always been a deep yearning within me, a sense of misplacement, like I never truly belonged anywhere. This is one of the things about myself I could never quite comprehend. I tried to spend my time doing things I enjoyed, study subjects that interested me, pursue my talents, follow my dreams, but although I strive to better myself and to become the person I am meant to be (a better version of myself), it has always felt as if something is missing – or someone. This feeling of something lacking in my life is not, however, tied to the absence of a boyfriend or the lack of love. Although this may play into my feeling of misplacement, it is generally more about feeling misunderstood and lost, as if I were born out of place and out of time.

XXX

It all began when my mother died 18 years ago. Yes, I do realise that is a long time, almost two decades, but her loss stays with me still. She died when I was but a child of five, never to see me grow up. I have always felt stunted due to her absence, like a part of me died with her. Over the years, however, I have come to accept that she is gone and that I have to move on somehow, even if it feels like I'm leaving her behind. I think about my mother every day, even if just for a second, and I strive to be the best version possible of myself, mainly because of her, but also to make my father proud.

He raised me on his own. However, he had a fulltime job to ensure the bills could be paid and we could live a comfortable life, so for a time I didn't get to see much of him. During that period of my life I had a babysitter, and let me tell you, she was one of the nastiest creatures you would ever come to encounter. Her name was Beatrice Grateley, and as you can probably already tell, she did not live up to her last name.

She was far from great, but she certainly viewed herself as superior to everyone else. Beatrice came from a rich family (as the name probably implies) and saw me as an orphaned little girl back then, because she witnessed my father's many absences and she knew of my mother's passing. To her, I was a girl she could never come to respect. Instead, she bullied me and played mind games.

When I was younger, I never really noticed how she was affecting my self-esteem by repressing me and treating me as if I didn't matter, instead of taking care of me and helping me grow, but by the age of eight I was struck by the realisation that her constantly blaming me for things I hadn't done and treating me as if there was something wrong with me, was just a way to make herself feel important. She was miserable on the inside and putting me down gave her a sense of purpose. It had nothing to do with me. I had never hurt a soul, but if I didn't obey her orders she chided me for it relentlessly and treated me like there was no good in me, although she was the real devil, a she devil, a two-faced whatsit. I am too polite to swear in writing, I hardly do so even in speech, but she deserves the worst swearword you can think of. Let us call her a "bum face." This term is acceptable to me, for it has an amusing ring to it, rather than resorting to more vulgar insults. Laugh if you will, I know I am a bit strange, but I enjoy being polite. I find that fighting or calling each other names never really leads anywhere, never furthers an argument to cause its peaceful end, never provides the solution to a problem. Rather, name-calling only causes more damage, more injury and deepens mutual hate.

I think it is clear which point I am trying to make. Beatrice was a very unpleasant person, the opposite of a caretaker, but due to my father's many absences, he never came to see her true nature, and I must admit that I was too shy to complain and to humble to feel I deserved better. Well, you understand my meaning. I had to endure Beatrice's 'care' for another two years until my father was finally able to send me to boarding school due to a scholarship I was granted at the age of ten. I have always been quite ambitious. I finished my education at this school in our neighbouring town of Netherfield, the very place where I bumped into my best friend, Amanda Parker.

Amanda was the kind of girl whose sheer goodness radiated from her skin. Her pure, white, porcelain skin. She had blonde locks flowing down to her shoulders in soft waves and deep blue eyes that pierced right through your soul. When I was feeling lost, she became the healing power I needed to lose my bitterness and my pessimistic view of the world. While I whinged and whined a lot before I met her, she became my cure, my reason to regain hope in myself and my future. I had had difficulty working through my mother's death, since it was very sudden. She had a brain tumour, of the vicious kind, and once it was discovered, it was already too late to prolong her life. I grew up wondering why it was my mother who had to die. Why had God, or whichever superior power which resides in the heavens, chosen my mother? Which lesson was I to take away from losing her?

Well, of course there is no answer to this question and no logic to be found in her death, no explanation. It just happened, and I have come to accept this now, but back then I was a very grumpy child, especially after being treated like rot when Beatrice took over my guardianship while my father was working. Once I bumped into Amanda, however, I changed my view on life completely. She has been battling cancer since childhood and succeeded in fighting it – for now. Although, of course she does not know to this day if it might return, and she lives her life accordingly.

So, I saw this beautiful girl, this angel, who was probably the dearest creature in creation, the purest of heart and soul, who had been faced with a death sentence and survived it due to her willpower and positivity. She lives every day like it is a gift, maybe this has to do with what she has gone through, but she is also a very positive and loving person by nature. I learned from her to find inner peace and to be able to turn the other cheek, as opposed to lashing out when I felt threatened. I became the calm and collected person I am now because of her. We are still best friends to this day, although sometimes I wonder why she puts up with me. Let's be honest, what could she possibly have gained from being in my gloomy presence all the time?

Maybe she is truly an angel sent from the heavens. That is what I think sometimes, for I have never met someone as good as her before in my life. Amanda decided to stay in Netherfield after our graduation to go job-hunting. We still see each other regularly, as I am also in Netherfield due to my internship. She is a true friend to me, and one I don't intend to let go of, lest circumstances force me to do so.


	3. Through the Hedge

**CHAPTER II - THROUGH THE HEDGE**

I woke up with a start. My face was squashed against the windowpane, slimy spittle oozing from the corners of my mouth. A delightful sight, I'm sure! The steady pattering of the raindrops against the glass must have lulled me to sleep. I carefully pealed my face off the windowpane and rubbed my eyes, taking a peak outside.

It seemed to have stopped raining. The garden looked fresh and rejuvenated from the shower it had just received. The colours were almost too bright for my red-rimmed eyes to bear. The sun was glinting through the clouds; a rainbow even having formed above them. The view was breath-taking. It felt magical to me. I was awed by the heavenly beauty displayed before me.

My moment of serenity was quickly interrupted, however, when I saw to my dismay that I had forgotten to take in the washing! Drat! It was still hanging outside, dripping wet. Clever, Ruby…very clever! Remind me never to devote myself to household chores again while preoccupied. I sighed. I knew I was scatter-brained, but this? Had I been that deep in thought? Some of the washing had been flung off the lines, too. There must have been a real storm, wreaking its havoc while I snoozed obliviously.

Grabbing my _Jane Eyre_ edition out of reflex, I ran downstairs to fix the mess I had made. But as I had reached the patio, an odd sensation overcame me. I felt uneasy, as if something was amiss. This feeling took a hold of me suddenly without forewarning. I could not see anything odd at first glance, though. Everything seemed normal. I decided to head to the back of the garden then, which I could not clearly make out from the place I was standing, as the washing hanging from the lines was obscuring my view. I made my way through the dripping clothes, ducking as I went. As I came out the other end, I felt that uneasy feeling creep over me again, and I soon knew why.

From the place I was standing opposite the hedge, bordering on the neighbouring garden, I could make out the faint bristling of leaves and snapping of twigs. The hedge itself seemed to have come alive! It was quivering, shaking even, and seemed to be parting in the middle. My jaw dropped. What on Earth was happening? Was I still dreaming? I stood rooted to the spot, entranced. The hedge was indeed splitting in the middle, as if it were being pulled part by an invisible hand, each end moving sideways, branches untwining, until an opening was created in the middle in the shape of an arch. There was now an actual doorway in the hedge, leading God knows where. What a strange thing to behold…

* * *

I was panting, overwhelmed by the sight I was witnessing. What I saw beyond the hedge was not the neighbour's garden either. It was indeed a garden, but from what I could make out, it had gone quite wild. It also seemed to be raining heavily while our garden was lit with brilliant sunshine. How could this be? My mind was buzzing with conflicting thoughts, but I had no time to process them, for there was something even more curious to be seen.

I could make out a running figure on the other side, heading for the archway. This person was moving fast, and in no time, she burst onto our side of the hedge dripping and coughing heavily. I stared at her dumbfounded. She looked like she had stepped right off the stage of a Victorian play. I pinched my arm just to make sure it was real. It tingled with the pain. The girl stood hunched before me, attempting to clean the poufy part of her bland grey gown, which was strewn with mud spots. She rubbed it gruffly, then stood up, sighing, as if she didn't see the point.

She froze suddenly when she took sight of me. We stared at each other for a second or two. Then she curtseyed, clearing her throat, as if she had just remembered her manners: "Excuse me, Miss, for trespassing on your property. I seem to have travelled into a different part of England. I don't know how…or have I travelled through space? I do not know, Miss. It seems this archway has transported me somewhere, perhaps a parallel world of sorts, but I assure you, I mean no harm. My name is…"

"Jane," I interrupted her dazedly, my mouth opening before I could stop it. "You're Jane, aren't you?" I addressed the girl directly, gazing at her transfixed, my mind not quite comprehending the thought I had already uttered. "Yes, Jane Eyre, Miss," she took another curtsy and smiled at me encouragingly. "My name is Ruby, Ruby Bunting," I introduced myself, still in shock. "How can you be Jane? You are not a real person. You're the creation of…of Charlotte Brontë," I stuttered, waving the book in her face stupidly. "Do you see? This is a fictional story. How can you be standing here before me?"

I almost sounded accusing, but Jane responded calmly. "I have my fleshly envelope, as do you, Miss Bunting. I am astounded you profess it could not be so. I am as much human as you." She looked at me with a quizzical look in her eye, that made me drop my gaze ashamedly. She was intimidating, as she stood there looking me up and down.

"Your hair," she then suddenly said, "it glows in the evening sun. What a unique colour. Is that why your parents named you Ruby?" "Yes," I said. "Ruby, like the diamond." My hair was naturally a reddish shade, almost golden, and tended to draw people's attention. "It is beautiful," Jane said to me. I smiled at her, then I burst out laughing, as a means to release tension, because I felt this entire situation was so ridiculous.

What on Earth was going on? Had I really just met Jane bloody Eyre (pardon my French) and had she actually given me a compliment just now? Wow…either my delusions had a tighter grip on me than I thought, or I had wandered straight into the realm of insanity. There was no way this could be real. I had always wanted to meet Jane, but that was just a fancy, not a feasible wish to fulfil. I decided to go with it all the same. What other choice did I have?

"I saw you running from a mile away through that terrible storm on your side…," I began cautiously, "What were you running from?" Jane hesitated, looking at me sternly, as if to decide whether or not I could be trusted. She must have thought so, for she then replied: "I was running from…my master."

"You mean Mr Rochester?" "Yes," she said simply, then asked, "how is it you knew my name before I knew yours? You seem to have oracular abilities. That look in your eye. It speaks volumes. Pray, what are you? Are you a dream? Are you truly some kind of fairy? I cannot tell, and I do admit, I do not really believe in such things, but I am at a loss to explain this situation," Jane frowned, seeming confused.

"You have travelled in time, Jane," I explained. "You travelled from a fictional story into the real world. For, in this world you solely exist as a character in a story like I told you. I have read that story many a time and I know it off by heart. I believe you could call me your closest ally." Jane nodded pensively. "I trust you," she then said gravely, without giving it much thought. I stretched out my hand to her, saying: "This is how we greet each other in my world. It is a sign of respect, a sign that we are friends." We shook hands.

"Friends?" she asked with a smile on her face. "Yes, friends, indeed," I said. "I would be interested to read this book, which supposedly tells my story," Jane said after a brief pause. I told her we would come to that later. She indeed seemed to have been running from Rochester. From her description, it must have been right around the time of the novel where Jane runs away from her 'master' after finding out about Bertha Mason. She confirmed my suspicion when I asked her. This meant that the part of the story where Jane met St. John Rivers would fall away, unless she returned to Thornfield, but how could I send her back into the storm? Would I not be able to persuade her, to soothe her? She had now missed out on almost escaping death on the Yorkshire moors, was that really such a bad thing? (I mean, duh?!) How could I send her back now? A blip had already occurred in the story, if I now sent Jane back, she could die, she might never find her way back to Rochester again.

In that moment, I was torn, thinking desperately what I should do. I eventually decided to do the polite thing with any guest, and asked Jane to come inside. I made her a cup of tea (as you do with new friends. Quaint, I know…) and she told me about the recent events which had driven her into my arms, as it were.

* * *

If this was all really happening, then it was my duty to bring Jane and Rochester back together, but I needed to send her back at the right moment, or could I possibly prevent the fire Bertha had caused? Would this be wise? I had no clue what to do at this point, but I knew the solution was behind the hedge. I asked Jane to join me in another tour of the garden. The hedge was still wide open, unchanged, the archway beckoning me to explore the world beyond. As I stared at the hedge, I felt transfixed, as if some higher power had taken hold of me, for all of a sudden I couldn't help myself, I was drawn towards the archway. It seemed like my very purpose lay beyond that hedge. My destiny was awaiting me.

I don't know what it was that drove me to cross the border between my world and Jane's, but I did. I stepped through the archway tentatively, until I left familiar territory. Jane had lent me her cape and bonnet, so I would be somewhat protected from the storm, but before I even had time to take in my new surroundings, I heard a shriek behind me: "Ruby! Ruby, come back!" But everything was happening too fast, and in a flash, the hedge had closed up again behind me, leaves rustling, branches grasping at each other like long spindly fingers, leaving me standing alone in a foreign land, in a place I thought I knew well, but which now seemed like the darkest place on Earth.

I fell to my knees in desperation, Jane's voice still ringing in my ears. I felt lost and confused, but I didn't have time to process my emotions, as I suddenly heard a faint noise in the distance, the noise of a horse galloping through the mud. I jerked my head up in surprise, as I watched, unprepared, as none other than Mr. Rochester came riding furiously towards me. Now I felt a tingling feeling coursing through my body. I was afraid. Would Mr. Rochester throw me off his property or worse lock me up in the attic, as well? He certainly looked ferocious with his glaring eyes. Oh! How I wished I could return home. How I wished I hadn't been so foolish!


	4. Rude Awakening

**CHAPTER III - RUDE AWAKENING**

"Jane!" Rochester bellowed from a few feet away without recognising I was not who he was looking for. "My Jane!" his voice was desperate, lowering as he approached me. A softness was visible in his eyes. "There you are!" he said to me now, not being able to make out my face, as it was concealed by the shadows. "You could not escape me after all!" he continued, getting off his horse, but as I stepped out of the darkness, his face fell upon realising that I was not his Jane.

"Well?!" he snarled, all softness washing from his face suddenly, as he was clearly angry and hurt by Jane's leaving and my disappointing him. "Who in God's name are _you_?" Mr Rochester demanded in an accusatory tone, taking in my unkempt appearance. I felt provoked. How dare he treat me in such a condescending manner! I was already beneath him, literally, as he towered over me, while I was still kneeling on the ground. I stood up as gracefully as I could, raising myself to his level.

"My name is Ruby Bunting, Sir," I stuttered, carefully draping the cloak over my modern clothing. Mr. Rochester continued glaring at me suspiciously. "I am a friend of Jane's. I came to visit her here, but all my belongings were stolen on the way."

 _Duh! Couldn't I have thought of a better excuse?_ I continued, "Jane wrote me a letter that she wished to visit her here. She seemed to need support," my voice trailed off, then I added, "but I never thought she would actually leave. I haven't seen her, unfortunately. I'm sorry." I lied smoothly, hurt that Mr. Rochester seemed so harsh, but I really didn't know what else I expected. For him to fall madly in love with me at first sight?

 _Yeah, right!_ Although I admit, I had imagined this many a time. What I was most certainly sure of, was that I was not prepared for this meeting. It threw me of balance, because I tended to avoid confrontations and behaved more or less awkwardly when faced with them.

"You are her friend; you say?" Mr Rochester inquired, scrutinizing my appearance. "Jane has no friends to speak of," he continued bluntly.

"I am a friend from school," I lied, standing my ground. "I have known Jane for a very long time, but I assume, she never expected to see me again, which is why she may never have mentioned me."

"Alright then," he replied gruffly, "we will see who you really are," a threatening undertone audible in his voice, "but for now," he continued, "I am in need of a governess. Do you have experience with children?" he demanded.

"Yes, I do," I lied again smoothly, thinking I would have to manage somehow. I had to learn as I went along, relying on my in-depth knowledge of the characters, but I did have a vague idea of how to take care of children, as I had looked after the neighbour's kids a few times.

"Good," he said, nodding sternly, as if I was a child who needed scolding. I'm sure he wouldn't have allowed for any other answer than the one I had given him. He seemed to demand me to work for him, rather than to ask politely. Then Mr. Rochester held out his hand boldly, commanding, "Well? Aren't you coming? We will ride back together."

Again, there was no room left to argue, and to be honest, I was happy he seemed so intent on hiring me, so I didn't question his motives. Looking back on this moment now, I realise I was being naïve, and should certainly have kept my guard up more. The problem was, I thought I knew him, as well as all the other characters, so I trusted him. I had faith in Rochester and believed it was my duty to 'save' him.

He helped me onto the horse before straddling it himself and we rode back together to the mansion. I had never ridden a horse before, and I was sitting side-saddle, so you can imagine the pain I felt in my bottom by the end of it. _What fun!_ I was rocked up and down on this bumpy ride and felt a sense of nausea overcome me, which I was able to suppress with a little effort.

I now felt like I was on auto-pilot. I couldn't think, I could hardly speak. In short, I couldn't grasp what was happening. An overwhelming desire to sleep suddenly overcame me, as if a giant wave were crashing down on me while I was forced to watch on helplessly. I immediately asked to be led to a private room as soon as we got inside, so I could finally get some rest. I was at the end of my tether.

The events of the evening had robbed me of all my energy, and when I could finally lay down my head on a soft, cushiony pillow, I fell into a deep state of dreamless oblivion.

XXX

The next morning, I awoke to birds chirping merrily by my window. A beam of sunlight shone through the space between the heavy curtains, creating a spectacle of dancing dust particles in its eerie glow. I got up hesitantly from the four-poster bed, still feeling slightly dazed by the events from the night before. I felt disorientated, as if I had just awoken from the most startling dream…or perhaps this was to be a nightmare (let's hope not!) As this harrowing thought crossed my mind, I heard someone knocking on the door. It was one of the maids.

"Good morning, Meess!" she greeted me cheerily in her quirky, French accent. She told me she hailed from Paris where she had been Adèle's mother's maid and travelled with the family to England.

She asked me: "Vous êtes la nouvelle gouvernante, Mademoiselle, n'est-ce pas?" as she opened the green velvet curtains. "Monsieur Rochester," she rattled on, "il m'en a raconté hier soir. Comme c'est terrible que la pauvre Meess Eyre n'est plus avec nous! Elle va me manquer, mais ne laissez-nous plus parler d'elle. J'en suis sûre qu'elle va retourner un jour."

I replied that I indeed believed Jane would be alright and would hopefully return to Thornfield Hall soon. I wondered, though, how on Earth I was going to manage to find my way back to her. At least I knew she was safe in my home and not on death's door somewhere on the Yorkshire Moors. Hopefully, my father wouldn't get too much of a fright when he found her in our house. I almost chuckled at the thought.

The maid, whose name I later found out was Marie, continued her inquiries: "Et vous venez d'où, Meess Bunting?" Her accent awoke in me a feeling of nostalgia, as I remembered childhood holidays spent in France with my parents. My mother had loved the French language. I replied that I was from a place called Blackfield, which she claimed never to have heard of.

"Eet eez _étrange_ I must say," she mused, "zat you should appear on our doorstep ze moment Jane 'as left." She glanced at me shrewdly, then shrugged: "Maybe eet was all an act of fate. Per'aps you shall be our new Jane." I opened my mouth in protest, but Marie brushed me off with: "Now, now. I will not 'ave you lookeeng like zees before ze master. Eet will not do!" she said briskly. I was wearing a white flannel nightgown, which had been looked out for me the night before. I was probably looking quite dishevelled. To me it was all a tad bizarre.

The maid then proceeded to bustle me out of the room and along the corridor of the servant's quarters upstairs, as we headed to the bathroom. You know I had been wondering if I was even going to get the chance to clean up. I was a creature of habit after all and I needed my daily 'washing ritual,' as it were, to start my day. Instead of a shower, a bathtub awaited me. So much the better! There was a small fireplace embedded in the wall as well, but it remained unlit. I was kept warm by a cotton robe, which I wore on top of my buttercup yellow nightgown, my feet cushioned by soft woolly slippers.

However, despite being offered all these sources of warmth and comfort, I still felt a slight chill run down my spine. Whether this could be attributed to the gloomy atmosphere of the house or the chilly air that permeated the room, I did not know (but I guessed the former.)

Marie glanced at me worriedly, seeing me shiver: "Would you like me to light the fire, my dear?" she asked me kindly. "We are a frugal 'ousehold 'ere. The master likes to save every penny, but we can make an exception, if it is too cold for you." I politely refused her offer, not wanting to disrupt any rules that had been set in place. If I was to survive, even thrive here, I would have to adapt to the rules. Of course, I wasn't exactly used to a household without any heating, except the fires lit in the main rooms, but I would quickly be able to make do. It was my attitude that counted, and, as a governess now, it was not my place to make a fuss.

"I come from much different circumstances," I explained, "there is a world of difference between the place I am from and this place." (Detect the careful use of the word "world" here.) Marie nodded understandingly, "So, what eez eet you are saying to me, Meess?" I told her I was not accustomed to a household of this grandeur and did not know what was considered appropriate and habitual. I asked her to explain the "washing procedure," as it were. Marie must have thought me odd, but I was not really bothered. It seemed they had running water, but it was cold.

Once the maid had brought two buckets of hot water from the kitchen, I was able to wash in the tub, mixing hot and cold water together until I found a temperature that was pleasant for me. I used the water as sparingly as I could, and, once I was done washing and had finished my toiletries, if you know what I mean (thankfully, there was a decent plumbing system in place), I asked the maid, who had been waiting outside at my request, to help me get dressed. It was impossible to manage this task entirely on my own, as there was a corset involved, a lot of tying and tightening of knots until I was considered halfway decent. I was wearing a bland grey gown and my hair had been arranged in an intricate updo at the back of my head, two bell-shaped strands of hair framing my face.

When I glanced in the nearest mirror, I couldn't recognise myself. I looked pale (no make-up) and proper, yet elegant. My pallor and grey gown gave me a slightly mousy air, but all in all I liked my new look. A real Victorian governess now stood before me. Hopefully, I would not get so lost in this place, possibly never finding my way back to my real self and my real home. It all felt so artificial somehow. I was living in some kind of perpetual daydream-state. I felt like a doll in a dollhouse. The question was, who was pulling the strings? Fitting in was one thing, but letting myself be consumed by this place was another thing entirely. I was somehow scared of losing myself here, of never finding my way out of these breeches, corsets and dresses that were covering me up, layer by layer, burying the real me underneath them.


	5. Out of the Darkness

**CHAPTER IV - OUT OF THE DARKNESS**

The house appeared a lot friendlier in the daytime. When I arrived the night before, I had been a little afraid, as the corridors had been dark, solely lit by candlelight, flickering in the wind, shadows dancing on the walls, like they, too, were secret-keepers, sentinels to ward off any prying eyes. This house appeared to be filled with mystery, and I knew the greatest secret of all. The question was, would I admit upfront that I had heard of Bertha Mason, or would I play the "ignorant, simple girl card," meaning would I slip into the role of the unworldly simpleton? That would certainly not do! It would hurt my pride, and besides, I was too stubborn to subject myself to anyone's will. So, I thought it best to be as honest as I could, leaving away only one detail – that I had come from a different time in the 'real world.' This place was fictional Victorian England, after all, unless I were to assume that Charlotte Brontë's story had suddenly come alive, that there was some kind of purpose to me being here, and of Jane being absent. I could only think of one feasible reason, really, and that was for me to bring Jane and Rochester back together, but this should have happened naturally. Why was I to be involved?

These thoughts were crossing my mind as I headed down the giant staircase, my footsteps muffled by the lush, wine red carpet. I spluttered with laughter when the image of myself in a giant white ball gown suddenly flickered before my mind's eye. I wasn't one for poufy gowns, nor was I a princess headed to a ball, but right now I felt a little bit like Cinderella, mostly because of my gown, simple as it was. I never really wore dresses much. I was easy-going, straight-forward and I often identified with Jane because of this. She had known hardship, misery and mistreatment, until she had met Helen Burns who became her one guiding light. My past had also not been free of its unbearable moments, but I, too, had survived them. Perhaps it was the likeness between Jane and I that had finally brought me here today. Perhaps I truly had it in me to make myself likeable to Mr. Rochester, and to be let into his inner circle of trust. I was not infiltrating this castle; I was to become part of this household.

Mr. Rochester was known to be a moody, unpredictable, angry character. This was the reason I felt uneasy. It would be difficult to gain his trust. He was a respect-inducing man. I believe intimidation was his way of gaining respect and perhaps even bending people's will, so they would do his bidding. He was a master of games, of manipulation, and a man who would not tolerate any secrets being kept from him. I would be tested when I met him and I would have to be careful about what I revealed to him and what was better to be left unsaid. Meeting him in person was bound to be interesting, but I truly hoped I had enough backbone to stomach his severity. What I needed now was confidence.

As I headed towards my supposed inevitable doom (laugh if you will, but this was how I felt at that moment), I could hear the most saccharine tune drifting from one of the rooms downstairs. Following the piano music, I found my way to a giant oak door, which stood ajar. The source of the tune lay just beyond this door. I pushed it open carefully, as if I awaited a beast beyond its threshold. The music was so gentle and sweet that it may have lulled me into a false sense of security, but I felt like I was entering a dragon's den.

"Halt, Adèle. Someone has come," I heard a harsh voice blurt out as I entered the drawing room. A fire was crackling in the fireplace where two armchairs stood neatly side by side. A dark figure was seated in one of them. As I took a look around the room, I could see the walls were covered with bookshelves. The man in the armchair, who I could only assume was Mr. Rochester, had his nose stuck in a large book. Perhaps it was an encyclopaedia, judging by its size. I heard the pattering of feet as Adèle skipped away from the piano and approached Mr. Rochester in an attempt to persuade him to let her stay.

"Now, now, Adèle. We have a guest," Mr. Rochester said firmly, "Go and play with your dolls while I have a chat with your new governess." How had he known it was me who had just entered the room? Was he some sort of psychic? A shiver ran down my spine as I felt all loss of control. Mr. Rochester was an imposing man, indeed, but I could not allow him to intimidate me with little tricks like these. Adèle obeyed him wordlessly, though, heading out of the room through another door next to the fireplace. I felt overcome by a sudden sense of déjà-vu, as if I had experienced this moment before. Of course, I knew why I felt like this. It was because I was now reliving a novel I was very well acquainted with. I was to be interviewed now, just like Jane had been, by the man himself: the master of the house.

"Come now, Ruby!" Mr. Rochester then growled from his seat by the fire, adding gruffly, "and shut that lousy door behind you. I can feel a draft coming in." Apparently, he had unlearned his manners or perhaps he had never had any. Rudeness was one of the character traits that irked me the most. I could not let anybody speak to me like this, but for now it was best to obey orders. He could hear my opinion later.

Maybe the reason for his rudeness lay in Jane's absence. She had appealed to his softer side and the only way to soften the blow of his hard-heartened manner was by remaining calm and collected. That was why I remained silent while I did his bidding. I hovered uncertainly for a moment before approaching him, until he barked: "Well, don't just stand there! Sit!" I wished I could tell him where to get off. I was not a dog and I despised being treated like one. Nonetheless, I did as I was told, deciding not to provoke the man. I would have to lay my pride aside for now. I knew better than to start an argument with such a stubborn specimen, a man who was now my "master" by all accounts.

"So," Mr. Rochester began in a getting-down-to-business type of manner after I had taken my seat opposite him, "your name is Ruby Bunting, and you are a governess, like my Jane was?" He shook his head, as if confused, "Sorry, like Jane _is_ I mean," his voice drifted off momentarily. I could hear a hint of that soft tone of voice smoothing over its usual roughness once more, as I had done at our first encounter at Mr. Rochester's mention of Jane. This small sign of his humanity gave me hope. I became slightly more sure of myself. "Yes, Sir," I replied in a no-nonsense manner that I thought Mr. Rochester would respect. I was sure Jane would be proud of me. I was facing the dragon, as it were, I just had to avoid being burned if he spat fire.

I still couldn't clearly make out his face at this point. I was sure this was all part of his attempt to remain mysterious, even dangerous, proving his unpredictability. The man could jump out at any moment if he pleased. Leaning forward then, Mr Rochester let the light from the fire flood to his face. The curtains were still drawn in this room, so it was rather dim. Why hadn't he opened them? The day had only just begun. Peculiar was merely one word to describe him. After a series of probing questions, ranging from where I was from to why I had intended to visit Jane, which I answered as vaguely as possible, mostly by lying through my teeth (a habit which I seemed to be improving nicely!) I kept my poise, though, and I must have been convincing enough for Mr. Rochester to believe me, as he did not ask me any follow-up questions (phew!). I basically pretended to have been a figure like Helen Burns to Jane, one she had never mentioned because she believed me to be dead as well.

I knew that Helen Burns had really been Jane's only friend. One person suffices to change your view of the world. When you feel all is dismal and hopeless, all that is needed to change your perspective and give you hope, is one act of kindness. It was Helen Burns who showed Jane that she was not alone, who proved that there was goodness in the world, even though all that Jane had experienced up to that point was pure misery. I also had those kinds of people in my life. I was lucky to have two of them, the most trusted people in the world to me: Amanda (my best friend) and my father.

I wondered in that moment what Jane might be doing right now and how well or badly my father had dealt with her arrival. It was only the first day after all. Mr Rochester must have noticed my thoughts had drifted off, as he suddenly demanded: "Do you have secrets, Ruby?" I jumped in my seat. I had at this point managed to avoid mentioning Bertha Mason's name or any other secrets that might be harmful to my reputation. Once I had calmed down, I replied slyly: "Doesn't everyone have their secrets, Sir?" Mr. Rochester nodded gravely, "Yes, indeed." He looked at me probingly, laying the encyclopaedia aside and placing all his attention on good old me. (What luck! I loved being stared down.) What was he trying to do? Weed out any insecurities? Perhaps. He was an intelligent man, after all.

"What secrets do you speak of, Sir? Why do you mention them?" I inquired. "Well, Miss," he began, "you have a look about you, a look of someone who knows loss and pain, a look of someone who has seen much suffering. That is the kind of person who knows how to harbour secrets, because it is these persons who know how to conceal their pain, but they are also able to conceal many other things. It is the act of deception they have learned in order to survive." I weighed my words with caution before saying, "You seem to speak from experience, Sir," Mr Rochester looked me directly in the eye then and said gravely, "Yes, indeed. Sadly...," his voice trailed off, as he suddenly seemed lost in thought, a tormented look crossing his face.

"Sir," I mused, feeling uncomfortable in the sudden silence, "did you ask me about secrets, because you are worried I know about yours?" He looked at me blankly, "I mean," I continued, "are you trying to assure yourself that I can be trusted, even though Jane might have told me your best-kept secret?" He frowned at me. "Speak plainly, Madame. I have no time for riddles." I sighed heavily, then said, "I know of Bertha Mason, Sir." A quiet smile crossed Mr. Rochester's face, but his eyes remained stern. "I am aware of this, Miss," he said simply after a brief pause. "But-" I spluttered stupidly, "how could you know?" He grinned mischievously from ear to ear, relishing in my surprise, "It was Jane herself who told me." He laughed out loud now at my shocked expression. Muddled thoughts began buzzing in my head: How could Jane have told Rochester anything? She was tucked away safely in real-world Blackfield while I was stuck here in fictional Victorian England. Mr. Rochester seemed highly amused at my confusion, relishing in his power. The knowledge he possessed gave him the upper hand now, knowledge he was deciding whether or not to bestow on me. In the end, he must have chosen to trust me, for he began to explain at last: "Well, I must confess that I have been testing you, Ruby. I may call you Ruby, Miss, mayn't I?" he asked courteously. I nodded briefly. "I must confess that I have been toying with you and I apologise," Mr. Rochester admitted, "but I needed to see if you would offer up the truth of your own accord. Gladly, you did," he looked at me a little more kindly, then.

"You see," he continued, " _my_ secret is, that I know Jane has told you about Bertha. You know everything, Ruby. I know this, because Jane wrote me a letter, which arrived only this morning. God knows where exactly it came from and why I received it under such strange circumstances…" Mr Rochester trailed off and I gave him a puzzled look: "What do you mean, Sir?" He elaborated then, "You see, there was no postman to deliver the letter, it simply lay on a table in the attic one day. Grace Poole then proceeded to deliver it to me. You can imagine that I suspected the letter to have been forged, perhaps a trick of Bertha's. The circumstances were so peculiar, even you could have written the letter, Ruby. At least, that was what I thought before reading it," he sighed, then proceeded, "but I know my Jane better than anyone and I am familiar with her handwriting. So, once I had read the letter, I was convinced that Jane was its author. Not only was it her handwriting, but the letter also contained information only Jane could have known," Mr. Rochester finished, sighing.

When I finally exclaimed, "Oh, wow!" after gaping at him stupidly, Mr. Rochester cocked his head, amused. "You seem as surprised as me, Ruby, but now we know for certain that we can trust each other, and more importantly, that I can trust you, Miss," he nodded his head in my direction and said in a celebratory tone: "Welcome to the household!" He beamed at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to jump for joy or give him a high-five (how taken aback he would be if I did this!)

I could now feel how changeable a man Mr. Rochester could be. It was quite strange. This whole interview had felt like an initiation into a fraternity or a cult of some kind. Why was Mr. Rochester never upfront? Why was he always playing mind-games and testing people? Had he so little faith in humanity? It seemed so. I would have to be careful not to be sucked into his world, not to become lost in promises I made him. I would have to tread lightly around him. Giving me a brief smile, he then left the room swiftly, his coat billowing in his wake. I stood there alone for a moment until Marie came to escort me to Adèle's classroom.

I felt winded now. As we walked out into the hallway, I blinked in the bright sunshine flooding through the windowpanes. It had been so dark in the living room, that I had felt suppressed, somehow cornered, but I had now finally been released. I was free! I sighed in relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, hoping the hardest part was now over.

XXX

I knew the first meeting with Mr. Rochester was always to leave an impression, but I had felt so exhausted after his inquisition that I could hardly concentrate on Adèle's lesson that day. This was another thing. I did not really know how to teach anyone anything, but I did speak French and I knew how to help myself, so I asked Adèle to explain what she had learned up until this point, so I would know where she had left off. I would be responsible in educating her on all fronts from English grammar to geography, relying on my general knowledge. I had enough faith in myself, of course, that I would be able to teach her the basic facts I myself had learned in school or by enhancing my general knowledge by delving into the odd book. It would be fine, but I had no Wi-Fi here for obvious reasons, so I could not simply check the odd thing on _Google_ like I was used to doing.

But I had never been one of those people anyway who were always stuck with their heads in their smart phones. Those kinds of people always looked like zombies to me. It seemed that modern technology had a way of making people dumber. The more dependant one becomes, the less one thinks for oneself. The world I had grown up in, a world of _Snapchat_ , _Twitter_ , _Facebook_ and _Tinder_ was a world of social networks, making us "unsocial," as it were, in real life. We become more and more disconnected, the more we "connect" via these artificial fast-paced forms of communication. They may be useful tools, but when it comes down to it, you can't forge real connections online. You can only do this in person. Funnily enough, living without an internet connection made me feel a lot more alone, but also a lot calmer, and a lot more centred. It was generally a little strange being so cut off from the "real world." I noticed this more and more as the weeks passed me by. I felt like I was an alien, an enlightened alien as it were, and that everyone else here was in a sense 'backward.'

Sometimes I wondered what had fascinated me so much with this world, a world I didn't really belong in after all. Was it simply the manners and the habits of courtship that fascinated me, or did I believe that the fact that it was a simpler time would somehow make life easier in general? Well, I was wrong! I began to miss my old home more and more each day, and when Mr. Rochester left suddenly on one of his voyages, I felt like I was merely wasting my time.

Can you believe that after everything he went through to prove his love to Jane, he was now visiting none other than Blanche Ingram? Again?! Jane and Rochester were supposedly already to have sorted everything out between them. They were a couple. Then why was Mr. Rochester continuing his courtship with Blanche now, if he was in fact aware of her true intentions and actually did not love her? She was only after his money, this was clear, and she did not appreciate him as a person. Why was he running back to her now? He was falling into old habits simply because Jane was gone. I was sure of it.

I wondered if he had given up hope. Perhaps he believed Jane would never return to him. I could not possibly believe he would visit Blanche if he thought otherwise. Maybe all of this had something to do with the letter he had received, a letter Jane had apparently written. Since that first day when Mr. Rochester had told me about it, I had been wondering how on Earth Jane had managed to send it here and why it had arrived in the attic (of all places.) I could only think of one explanation, and that was that Jane had found another portal into this world, perhaps she had slipped the letter under a hidden door somewhere. It must have been her need to communicate my trustworthiness to Mr. Rochester that had opened another portal into this world for her. Would I be able to communicate with Jane as well, if I pleased? I longed to sneak upstairs into the attic to see if I could find a portal or doorway that led me to Blackfield there. I was hoping to talk to Jane, but the attic was the most dangerous place in this house. It was also guarded by Grace Poole. How would I be able to slip past her unnoticed? I would have to come up with a plan. If there was more than one way of getting back, I needed to find it!


	6. Like a Thief in the Night

**A/N** **:** I apologise for the delay. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 **CHAPTER V - LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT**

Mr. Rochester having left for Ingram Park, I thought it was high time to make use of his absence. I would have more time to plan my night-time adventure now that I was not occupied with entertaining the self-proclaimed 'master of the house' in my spare time (believe me, I scoff at this notion!). In the past few weeks he had been here, I had somehow lost track of time, trying to get accustomed to my new routine, but Mr. Rochester required a lot of attention to be given to him. It displeased him to be alone and he felt bored easily, so I had replaced Jane's position as his companion. However, I did so in a respectful manner, of course. I was not replacing her as his lover and future wife.

On our daily strolls in the garden, Mr. Rochester had told me of Jane and how much she still meant to him, how he regretted having married Bertha, but that he had felt a tiny shred of hope that he could perhaps succeed in marrying Jane anyway, against all odds. I had felt sorry for him then, because I knew all his actions were well-intentioned. Even if his conduct was ill-advised when he attempted to drive Jane to the verge of insanity by rousing her jealousy, he had never meant to torture her. Perhaps I give Rochester too much credit, but, the way I see it, he was secretly attempting to find out what Jane truly felt for him beneath her stoic exterior. How could Mr. Rochester have known that he was hurting Jane so with his little games and ploys? I believe he was a bit insensitive, but maybe pushing Jane to the edge was necessary for her to admit her feelings to Rochester, as society was certainly "not amused" by this kind of union. A governess falling in love with her master? How despicable!

In the end, though, Rochester succeeded, however clumsily he had gone about it, in forcing Jane to confess her feelings. The words she had suppressed for such a long time, had finally erupted from her lips. I wonder, though, why Rochester himself had never admitted his feelings to Jane. Maybe she could have been spared some of the pain Rochester had caused her. He was, after all, permanently subjecting her to his will and treating her like his puppet. In my opinion, he went too far by abusing Jane emotionally, forcing her to her knees (pardon the ambiguity.)

However, Jane had finally proved her true strength by standing up to Rochester, and that is what makes her so special. She may have been victimised, but she never saw herself as a victim, if you get my drift. Jane showed Rochester her will-power by telling him that she is not a machine, but she also admitted to him that she wouldn't be able to stomach staying at Thornfield Hall if another woman was to be his wife. Yet, it was due to her position as governess, that Jane believed Rochester could never truly love her. This was why she had probably been so cautious around him.

Being in love with her employer seemed fruitless, but the moment the two of them found out about their love for each other, was the moment Jane made herself vulnerable and started hoping, rejoicing, only to be let down after finding out about Bertha. The only way Jane and Rochester could be together, was if Bertha died. This was also my current dilemma. Knowing what was to happen in the near future, I felt morally obligated to save everyone I could. What if I had the possibility of saving Bertha? What would this entail for the story? Was it perhaps better not to meddle too much? I was uncertain as to which choice I should make. Given the option, should I save Bertha Mason or was I to remain passive, standing by as Bertha committed suicide. I saw my role as the 'saviour' of Rochester's relationship with Jane. Due to the disruption of the plot, which I seemed to have caused, I needed to set things right. So, shouldn't the changes remain minimal? In our time, Rochester and Bertha could probably get a divorce, but there would be a lot of uncertainties even in this scenario.

My mission was to take place tonight. I had decided to infiltrate the attic to see if there was a way through into my world there. Even if I wasn't lucky enough to find a doorway or the like, I could rest assured that I had tried. Grace Poole usually guarded the attic room during the day, but she tended to sleep in her own room at night, lest Bertha needed emotional support or had lost control. There had been no crises to be attended to while I had been here, so I was safe to head upstairs this evening without anyone standing in my way.

It was the middle of the night now, and I was growing more and more agitated. Feeling tense, I left my bedroom, locking the door behind me, as usual. I headed for the attic hopefully, a candle in my hand, lighting my way in the otherwise pitch-black hallway. The candle's soft flickering light was my sole companion in this moment. Everything was silent, except for the occasional "click clack," sounding out every time I didn't tread carefully enough on the stone floor with my heeled shoes. I could see my own shadow projected onto the floor like a willowy ghost ahead of me.

This house was full of ghosts, whether they were merely talked of, whether they really existed or whether they were in fact memories or wishes left unfulfilled. This house seemed haunted, but more by Mr. Rochester himself, rather than by Bertha Mason who seemed like a ghost of Rochester's past herself. But it was Mr. Rochester who was the cause of the dark atmosphere pervading this house. His soul was truly tortured and his gloomy moods created a certain heaviness. Thornfield Hall seemed forlorn itself, standing on its own away from society. It was this isolation that really got to me at times. I felt like I had to break free from this cage.

Like the Beast in _Beauty and the Beast_ , Mr Rochester had attempted to escape his misery, loneliness and desperation by travelling far and wide, but really, he was only running from himself. Mr. Rochester had always been a man trying to lose himself in excess. An excess of women and an excess of alcohol were probably involved in those days he travelled all over Europe, running away from his own mistakes. Mr. Rochester was not exactly what I would call a man of moral conviction. He was rather a man without hope, which is perhaps a state of mind that explains his behaviour. Nobody deserved to live like that. There was so much darkness inside him, but also so much potential for goodness and happiness, if it were given the chance to be set alight. Jane had given Rochester this chance. She was his cure, his beacon of hope, perhaps the only girl who could save him at this point.

Sadly, now Mr. Rochester seemed to be carrying on in his old ways. He seemed to have given up again, so I would have to speed things up now. If there really was another doorway in the attic, this was my opportunity to bring Jane and Rochester back together, but I believed if I brought her through now, she might be in danger, for she was not supposed to be at Thornfield Hall at this present time. It might do more harm than good if she ended up being caught in the fire, which still lay ahead. Her life could be in danger. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time had brought me into this pickle, too, but I would get us both out of it, since clearly, I was meant to. This was the way I saw it, even if this sounds grandiose.

I had to believe this in order to feel like I had a purpose, a function of some sort. What would happen if Bertha survived? Would Jane and Rochester have a future? I thought it better not to meddle, but I would have to be careful, too. What if I couldn't save myself from the flames? How strong-willed did I really have to be, in order to stay in a house which was doomed to burn down? But I wasn't a selfish person, and I had enough faith in myself and this story that everything would work out in the end. In my dreams, I had always seen myself taking Jane's place. Who would have thought that I was now working on reuniting Jane and Rochester, instead? It was only a story after all, and my idea of Rochester had only been a fantasy. Who knew what could have happened if I had met him before Jane had ever arrived at Thornfield, but the story had almost reached its end now. That was why I was certain my role was a different one. Rochester would have to come back with me to Blackfield, so he could be with Jane.

I looked up the staircase leading to the attic. This was it. Taking one creaking wooden step at a time, I made my way towards Bertha's 'layer.' This was where the 'mad woman' resided. There were paintings here and there on the walls on either side of the stairwell. They were mainly portraits, but there was one painting, which gave me the creeps. It seemed to jump out at me, because it portrayed such pain and horror. It was a painting of mad people, screaming and shrieking figures, crawling over each other. What in God's name was Mr. Rochester thinking? Was that supposed to be an ironic statement? Well, it was certainly insensitive and left me feeling disturbed. The image of those tortured souls would probably haunt me later in my dreams, but I had to focus on the job I had to do at present.

After I had made my way upstairs, I took a look around. This room was the place where Grace Poole usually sat by the window. Her chair was still standing in its place. There was a small mirror hanging on the panelled wall to my left. Beats me what it was for, apart from it looking decorative. A small mahogany table stood by the wall under the mirror. There was also a door at the other end, possibly leading to Bertha's residence. The wall to the right was lined with a heavy velvet curtain from the ceiling to the floor. Lucky for me, there was a carpet on the floor as well, which muffled my footsteps and allowed me to take a look around without drawing any attention to myself. I tried opening the door by the window, although I didn't expect it to yield. It was indeed locked, but I could hear quiet snoring noises coming from the other side. Other than that, there was no sign of any creature of bestial nature living here. Instead, it was hauntingly silent.

At first glance, this room seemed like any other, but I was intrigued by the curtain covering the right wall and what might lie beyond it. I decided to investigate. Sherlock Holmes at your service! Was the curtain simply covering up another wall or was there more to be found? The curtain could be parted in the middle. Lifting one side up in turn, I peeked behind the velvet fabric, holding up my candle for a better view, but taking care not to let the flame graze the curtain.

There wasn't really anything unusual to be seen. Maybe I had better come during the daytime when it was light and Grace was taking one of her breaks, short though they may be. As a last resort, I pushed against the panels in the wall to see if they would give way, working my way from right to left, but nothing happened. Darn it! I stood motionless in the middle of the room for a moment. My eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Maybe I had better return the next day when it was light. I would have less time, but I was sure I couldn't accomplish anything more right now. The attic would still be here in the morning, after all.

I took one last look behind the mirror on the wall to see if I had missed something, but again, I came up empty, greeted only by the tapestry on the wall. However, just when I was about to turn around and head back down the stairs, I heard a woman's voice whisper urgently: "Ruby! Psst! Ruuby!" My head jerked back in the direction of the mirror automatically, having heard the voice coming from this direction. I held up my candle to illuminate the familiar face now looking back at me. It was Jane! Truly, it was Jane! I had found her at last!

"Hi," I said dazedly after staring at Jane's glowing face speechlessly for a brief moment. "I wanted to speak with you," Jane came right to the point, "Did Mr. Rochester receive my letter?" I filled Jane in on what had happened since my arrival here, keeping things simple. "It worked," I said finally. "Mr Rochester seems to trust me now, but-" I then began to wonder, "where are you right now?" I could see our shower curtain behind her. Jane confirmed that she was in our bathroom, looking through the mirror: "I can only reach through briefly with my hands," Jane explained, "that is how I managed to drop my letter off," then her face turned sullen, "but I must warn you that I think Bertha may have gotten her hands on the letter before it reached Edward. You see, I didn't seal it, and when I wanted to take a look if my letter had been picked up by someone, I couldn't see through the mirror anymore, but I could hear Bertha cackling to herself, as she read parts of the letter out loud." Just as I was about to thank Jane for the warning, Bertha began shrieking in the neighbouring room. "Dear Lord!" I exclaimed.

"Run, Ruby! Hide! And take care!" With that, Jane had disappeared from view while I still dithered about the room. I remember wishing Bertha would go to hell. In that moment, I could not have despised her more. I quickly darted behind the curtain, blowing out my candle just in time. Someone was running up the stairs. I pressed myself against the wall as best I could, so the tips of my feet would not peek out from under the curtain.

Standing stiffly, I listened tensely as Grace Poole attempted to calm down a screeching Bertha. I only went back to bed when all had grown quiet again, fumbling my way back to my room in the semi-darkness. What a night it had been! Feeling stiff and exhausted, I let myself fall onto the four-poster bed, snuggling up under the cosy sheets. My eyelids had grown heavy, and it was not long until I nodded off contentedly.


	7. Stormy Times Ahead

**A/N:** Hi everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Your reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.

I case you are new to this story:

The idea of writing a story of a 21st century girl suddenly landing in the world of fiction, sprung from the BBC mini series "Lost in Austen". I felt like it had to be done again. This time for my favourite novel "Jane Eyre."

I'm excited to hear your thoughts on what I've written so far. I appreciate your opinion and support. It really helps when the going gets tough to know that there are many of you out there who are as passionate about the novel as me!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the plot or the characters of "Jane Eyre". They belong to the wonderful Charlotte Brontë. The main idea is based on "Lost in Austen".

Thanks for your reviews and general support. Enjoy!

* * *

 **CHAPTER VI - STORMY TIMES AHEAD**

It had been quite the stormy night. Not only had a blizzard shaken up the trees outside, the branches of the giant oak tree outside scraping at my window, but I was also quite shaken up myself. My good night's sleep had gone out the window, because some very strange nightmares had pestered me all night long. It was unbeknownst to me where they had come from. Perhaps they had sprung from some deep, dark corner in the maze that was my subconscious. Perhaps I was more terrified than I had previously realised. I suppose I had been suppressing my discomfort for a little while too long.

The storm had raged through half the night and the nightmares were still haunting me at present, not yet washed from my system. One of them in particular would not leave my head. It had been about my mother's passing. In the dream, though, I was forced to watch my mother being murdered in front of my very eyes. The very thought still sent chills down my spine, although this was not the way she had really passed away, it seemed equally as terrible. The image of her screaming on her knees while a random thief stabbed her in the chest made my blood boil and my skin crawl. I began to shiver, although I had been sweating all night.

I had felt completely drained and empty the moment I awoke. Not quite certain at first where this feeling of unease stemmed from, I was now very well aware what had unsettled me. Alas, the dream of my mother had not been the only nightmare I had had. Another one was about Bertha Mason setting Thornfield Hall on fire by setting light to Jane's wedding dress. As I very well knew, this was more an ominous omen of upcoming events, rather than a fictitious nightmare. I now felt my heart growing increasingly heavy. I felt trapped, my energy drained, my mind blank, as if I had experienced great hardship.

A feeling of sheer terror still lingered in my bones. I had not dreamt of my mother in a very long time. I think the last time was when I was still a child, not that I had grown up very much since then. I often still felt rather childish, particularly now when I had no control over my current situation, or so it seemed. Perhaps it was time to take my fate into my own hands. I was sure that I would think about my mother all day now. She would keep popping into my mind at random intervals, reminding me of her passing. These kinds of dreams only surfaced when I was feeling particularly anxious. The main problem was that I knew I still had many challenges to face (not just in this world, but also in my own life), but, unfortunately, I felt weaker than ever in this moment.

First things first, I told myself. I got out of bed rather grudgingly and started my day. I still had to continue teaching Adèle. Once my energy levels had risen a little, and I had had a good breakfast, I was sure my mood would improve, though. Then I would have to hatch a plan, so I could reunite Jane and Mr. Rochester, and I could return home at last. I knew my (slightly unhealthy) obsession with the Victorian era and the novel _Jane Eyre_ was what had brought me here in the first place - by some inexplicable act of fate - but this was not where I belonged. That was clear to me know. In a way, I knew where my place was more clearly now than before. Hopefully, I would be able to break free of my daydreams and finally start my life when I finally got back. I had been stuck in some kind of fantasy vortex for far too long. It was certainly not healthy. I had to let go of my _Jane Eyre_ obsession and adapt to the time I actually lived in.

Perhaps I would always be a little behind the times, but this would not pose a problem. I had the choice not to have my face glued to a screen, and instead have my nose stuck in a book. I could be anything I wanted at any time. The only thing was, I had to begin to accept myself the way I was and give myself a break for once. Nobody is perfect and everything in good time. That was what my father always said. I would find a decent job (certainly!), which paid well and was fulfilling at the same time. I would find a partner who fitted to me well and treated me like the lady I was (har har!) I could have it all (sure, why not?) My fear had held me back for far too long. My escapism into the world of _Jane Eyre_ and this yearning feeling of something missing had brought me here, to this very moment of epiphany. Everything would surely fall into place. I simply needed to get myself sorted out now. I felt perhaps what had been missing all along was a sense of purpose. Well, I certainly had a purpose now!

XXX

The wind was still howling mournfully outside like a lost soul that morning. The rain was pelting heavily from an ominously dark sky. Maybe this darkness inside of me was all the result of this place. It was slightly depressing to live so cut off from society, so enclosed in one big mansion with no one to speak to (at least now that Mr. Rochester was gone.) I stared outside at the dismal weather for a moment before one of the maids came into the room. I was entitled to a bath each and every day if I wanted one, but I still had trouble with the gowns, particularly the laces at the back of them. This was why one or other of the maids would usually help me slip into my dress.

As I stood in the bathroom looking into the mirror, I saw my mother's reflection stare back at me. I had known this would happen. She would be in my thoughts all day, but this was how I was keeping her alive. The only thing was, I felt tortured by the thought of her, because I truly missed her. That was the reason I usually avoided thinking about her. It was too sad and broke my heart, but I was able to handle those feelings. I just felt so lost sometimes, particularly now that I was seemingly all alone. I began to wonder again, if I was merely a puppet in someone's game. A very twisted game indeed! Was somebody orchestrating this spectacle? How was this possible? Or was this still a dream?

Hopefully, I would find out soon, but perhaps I would never know and I might be forced to accept that there is no explanation. However, if there was any reason for my being here, it must be for me to bring the lovers back together. Whether I was somehow preordained to be here or not, I knew I needed to take the situation seriously, for if this was really happening, it meant a great danger lay ahead, which only I was aware of.

To my surprise, Mrs. Fairfax announced later that day that Mr. Rochester would be returning in a fortnight. I knew this would soon set a scurrying and bustling of the servants in motion, as they prepared the house, because the 'master of the house' was supposedly bringing guests with him, among them none other than Blanche Ingram. What a shock it had been to hear this piece of news!

Why was Mr. Rochester bringing that piece of work of all people? His return would certainly be a relief, but what was he playing at exactly by inviting Blanche Ingram? Mr. Rochester knew exactly what she was about and I knew he still loved Jane, so what was the purpose of inviting a woman who clearly wanted to marry him, but was merely after his fortune? The man was no fool, which was why I felt there was another intention behind his inviting Blanche.


	8. Caught Red-Handed

**CHAPTER VII - CAUGHT RED-HANDED**

I instantly noticed that something strange was definitely going on with Mr. Rochester when he got back from his trip.

To my surprise there was no Blanche accompanying him. Mr. Rochester claimed she would arrive a few days later, but left the matter open otherwise.

I wondered if I should tell Jane. Perhaps she knew what Mr. Rochester was up to. I wouldn't want Blanche coming to this house. She was a character I could do well with without meeting.

Her supposed beauty, her 'raven ringlets,' her 'oriental eye' and her sneering smirk would all be very much unwelcome here.

When I approached Mr. Rochester later that day, I noticed how uninclined he was to answer my questions. He kept attempting to distract me with unimportant matters, so I knew something was amiss.

The storm of that morning had passed by the afternoon, leaving the garden looking slightly derelict, or for a better comparison, like a battleground where invaders had wreaked their havoc. As soon as the rain and wind had subsided, Mr. Rochester headed out into the garden to check the damages.

The chestnut tree was still standing, splintered as it had been before (from the lightning bolt which had struck it when Jane and Rochester had professed their love to each other). Just one or two branches had been torn off the main stem, one of them had not been completely broken off, still hanging limply in mid-air.

I was watching Mr. Rochester from the study window upstairs where I was teaching Adèle. I saw him skulking around outside like a lion on the prowl. Mr. Rochester's brooding nature had a majestic air to it as well. Everything he did seemed to have a sense of purpose to it, a sense of sophistication, but this was why I found him intimidating.

Nevertheless, I decided this was my moment. I could talk to Mr. Rochester alone, without anyone listening in. It was as good a time as any to talk to him, so I made haste to end Adèle's biology lesson, so I could head outside.

I stood there in the garden for a moment, shivering slightly, as the winter months were just around the corner. It was still autumn at present, the leaves creating an artistic masterpiece, ornamenting the garden. Some of them were still deeply green, others alternating from deep reds to bright oranges.

The chestnut tree was the most majestic of all, its leaves a beautiful auburn colour, now catching the bright rays of the afternoon sun, glinting through the clouds.

As I stood there immersed in this entrancing spectacle displayed before me, Mr. Rochester suddenly addressed me, catching me off guard:

"Come, Ruby! Take a look at this fellow," he commanded out of the blue.

I had not noticed him approaching me. Last I had seen, he was still admiring a gooseberry bush nearby, lifting one of its branches to get closer look at its ripening fruit, growing large as plums.

However, all the while Mr. Rochester had not seemed to notice me and hadn't paid me any attention, so I had assumed he hadn't been aware of my presence. Even now, he kept his eyes glued to a cluster of yellow plants on the ground, which was only a foot away from me. He was marvelling at a red insect, perched on top of the yellow leaves.

Glancing up from his squatting position, Mr. Rochester then pointed at the insect, a bright gleam in his eye: "Look at its wings. Look how red they are. I haven't had the pleasure of sighting a Cinnabar Moth in my garden in a long time. You know what plant this is?" he asked me then.

I had no idea. "No, Sir," I said stiffly, not being very much into gardening myself, although I very much enjoyed spending time in nature.

"This is called a ragwort," Mr. Rochester explained, "You seem to lack knowledge when it comes to flora and fauna. I must teach you." He said this with a such a sense of determination and urgency that I felt obligated to obey him.

Mr. Rochester then indeed began rambling on, now stooping down to marvel at a knot of flowers that took his interest, talking to me about their scent, now pointing out the ripeness of some fruit or other in the bushes.

This was all interesting enough, no doubt about it, but I had come to discuss an entirely different matter, and the longer Mr. Rochester continued his quest to teach me about the plants in his garden, the more I got the impression that he was attempting to distract me, to engross me in a conversation, so I would entirely forget why I had come outside. He was a shrewd man after all.

When Mr. Rochester came to an end, I was finally able to confront him. The gravel crackled under our feet, as we headed back to the house.

"Mr. Rochester?" I began, "might I ask a question? It may seem a delicate matter." He nodded his approval.

"Why did you ride off to visit Blanche. I mean, what is your exact intention in inviting her here after all you have been through with Jane? Jane is not lost, you know. Why would you want to invite Blanche, knowing this would hurt Jane?"

"Now, now, Ruby," Mr. Rochester brushed off my accusation disapprovingly, "Who said my invitation had any ulterior motive to it? I certainly do not intend to hurt anyone's feelings, but I am lonely and I have few friends, so why not invite them?" I scoffed, "Surely, it is not all that innocent?"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't," Mr. Rochester said slyly. "You intend to confuse me," I retorted heatedly, "but you will not succeed."

As we stepped inside, I stormed off briskly without saying a word, angered by Mr. Rochester's evasiveness. I could hear him chortling behind me. What the hell was that all about? Did he enjoy riling people up? I was so frustrated with this man.

Here I was, doing my best to get him and Jane back together, and what was he doing? He was planning on having a party with a former potential spouse-to-be. There was something off about this whole situation.

As I stomped off upstairs, I didn't really know where I was heading until I had almost reached my destination. It was as if Jane was calling me, drawing me to her. I felt an urgent pull towards the attic and the mirror through which I had been able to see Jane.

I halted at the foot of the stairs, reminding myself that I couldn't simply barge up there without knowing how to excuse my presence there. I seemed to be in luck, though, because just then, I heard the heavy footsteps, which could only be Grace Poole's, approaching me from upstairs.

I hid behind a wall in the shadows until she had passed me by. Then, I quickly leapt up the stairs as noiselessly as I could and planted myself in front of the mirror.

XXX

"Jane!" I whispered urgently staring at my own reflection. "Jane! If you're there, please come out."

There was no response at first. After a few minutes, though, I breathed a sigh of relief, as I heard Jane's reply before her face came into view: "I'm here, Ruby." It took a while for her face to become fully visible in the glass, but I did not waste any time: "Jane!" I cried urgently, "I need your advice. Mr. Rochester has invited Blanche Ingram and some of his friends to come over in a few days. What do you think I should do? What does this mean?"

Jane looked puzzled. "Well, that does seem rather odd," she began in a careful tone, "but I'm sure there is no need to fret. I trust Edward. I am sure he has not lost hope that I will find my way back to him or vice versa. All I can think of is that he means to distract himself or create some kind of disruption due to his frustration. Either way, he would never choose to marry Blanche. He told me so himself when he proclaimed that he loved me like his own flesh," Jane finished. "Yes," I said quietly, "I remember that."

"So, Blanche is no threat to me and my future. Even if she should attempt to win Edward's favour, you need only remind him of who she really is," Jane paused briefly, then continued more sternly, "I am fretting much more about you, my dear Ruby. You are in the wrong place and the wrong time. I am sure you desire to return to your home. I feel now I have glimpsed the future, and as wonderful as it is, I too am feeling homesick. This day and age is so different from mine, I feel overwhelmed most of the time and it drains me of my energy, but I am happy to have been able to travel into the future." I grinned, "And I am equally happy I have seen your world Jane, but I also feel it's time to return home."

"So, we are agreed, then. We need to find a way to exchange places again-" Jane broke off suddenly, her face turning white as chalk, her eyes wide.

"BEHIND YOU!" she shouted before the image of her face evaporated into thin air.

Wondering what was going on, I stood there dazed for a moment, my heart pounding a mile a minute, until I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. "Ruby," a stern female voice said. "What in God's name is the meaning of this?"

I knew, of course, even before I turned my head around, that it was Grace Poole who was now standing behind me.

I admit, my current location did not make me look at all trustworthy, and I wondered how dire the consequences of a breach of trust like this were when it came to an unforgiving man such as Mr. Rochester.

I was sure, though, that I would soon find out…whether I liked it or not.


	9. Hoodwinked

**A/N** : The idea of writing a story of a 21st century girl suddenly landing in the world of fiction, sprung from the BBC mini series "Lost in Austen". I felt like it had to be done again. This time for my favourite novel "Jane Eyre."

As this is my main story, it is most dear to my heart. I started writing this version as a university project, but another version exists on my page, called **"Lost in Bronte"** as well. It is as yet unfinished, but if you'd like to read that version as well, you'd be welcome to.

I'm excited to hear your thoughts on what I've written so far. I appreciate your opinion and support. Your reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.

 **Disclaimer :** I do not own the plot or the characters of "Jane Eyre". They belong to the wonderful Charlotte Brontë. The main idea is based on "Lost in Austen".

Thanks for your reviews and general support. Enjoy!

* * *

 **CHAPTER VIII - HOODWINKED**

"May I ask what you are doing up here?" Grace Poole demanded, glaring at me resentfully. I seemed to be in quite the pickle. Despite her polite wording, Grace's stare was ferocious. I was in shock at first, just standing there speechless for a moment, until Grace continued, "I heard someone mumbling up here and I came to investigate. I had only gone downstairs to fetch my dinner." She placed the tray she was holding - obviously meant for Bertha - on the little table by the wall. "Well?" she pressed, "What do you have to say for yourself?" I then forced myself to speak, because I knew this whole situation looked worse than it was. "I promise you," I said as soothingly as I could, "I pose no threat to you. Please fetch Mr. Rochester. He will confirm this."

At least when it came to trusting me, Mr. Rochester had relied on Jane's word, and I was sure that trust could not so easily be broken, but when it came to my speaking to a 'virtual Jane,' the explanation may be a little trickier. If Grace Poole had overheard the last part of our conversation, I was sure she knew that I was not who I had said I was, and if my identity would be questioned even for a second, then the letter Jane had written to Rochester would mean nothing, because it would become evident that Jane had lied.

"Well?" Grace Poole spat at me again, "Talk!" _Was I a robot?_ I thought, feeling provoked. Did this woman have no respect for me at all or had she forgotten her manners? I apparently could not reply fast enough for her anyway, as she stormed downstairs impatiently without waiting for my answer, bellowing as she went: "I will certainly be having a word with Mr. Rochester now." Her thunderous steps were still audible to me upstairs, even as she had reached the floor below. While she was marching off like a soldier heading for battle, I stood stiffly in the same place she had left me, paralysed. I could hardly move and felt agonised at the thought of losing Mr. Rochester's respect. If he stopped trusting me, then he would never listen to me again, and I could forget reuniting him with Jane. But – as my mother always said: _Where there's a will, there's a way!_

I began thinking frantically. Technically, I hadn't done anything wrong, apart from being in the attic ( _the_ forbidden place of this house), but Mr. Rochester knew I was aware of Bertha's presence, so as soon as that could be cleared up, everything should be fine. Still, there was a lingering feeling of doubt in my mind, because I wasn't sure what exactly Grace had witnessed and overheard. If she had seen me talking to Jane through the mirror, there was no way for me to give a rational explanation. I would perhaps seem equally as insane as Bertha, but I would be telling the truth, which at this point, was probably the best thing to do.

Another question was, why Jane had panicked and disappeared on me. If she could only return, Mr. Rochester could see for himself that I was not completely batty. I could admit that I had lied about the way I got to Thornfield and where I was actually from, but he would surely be able to see that I had lied for good reason. My situation was rather unbelievable, even to me. If Grace Poole acknowledged what she had seen, it may make things easier, as I would have a witness. If Mr. Rochester believed in one magical event, he might believe another. Perhaps that was how I could gain his trust back, but I was afraid that Grace would accuse me of being an evil witch, which was exactly what happened.

After about fifteen minutes, I heard Grace return with Mr. Rochester in tow. This woman's heavy footsteps were very easily distinguishable from Mr. Rochester's light-footed, swinging steps. As the both of them entered the attic room, Grace scowled at me in distrust, saying accusingly: "There she is! The devilsh thing!" _Alright! Alright! No need to be so dramatic_! I thought reproachfully. Mr. Rochester chuckled under his breath, "Now, now, Grace. There is no need for that tone. I will talk with Ruby privately now, if you please." Grace looked a little down in the mouth, as if she had been looking forward to watching me being scolded. Perhaps she found it joyful, watching other people suffer, but she left grudgingly at her master's request.

Once Grace was out of earshot, Mr. Rochester simply gazed at me without saying a word for a while. After a minute or two, it seemed he had made his decision. I did not notice any changes in the way he addressed me. He remained respectful, soothing even, when he said: "You need not worry about Grace. She sees herself as the protector of this house, and your behaviour has her fretting." After a brief moment of silence, he continued, "Tell me, Ruby, what secrets have you been keeping from me? And what are you, exactly? I always thought my Jane had something of a witch or fairy about her, but I never meant this in a literal sense. Grace claims to have seen you talk to Jane through that mirror yonder," he gestured towards it while he spoke, "but unless I have lost my wits, that is entirely impossible."

I was almost inclined to say that I enjoyed doing no less than six impossible things before breakfast, but this was no _Wonderland_ and Mr. Rochester wasn't The Mad Hatter. Still, I was tempted to simply throw the truth in his face and let him deal with it however he pleased, but it was also my survival that was at stake, and Mr. Rochester did not seem particularly angry, so I might just get by unscathed. "Well," I began, "to tell you the truth, I know exactly where Jane is at the moment, only it would be very hard for you to believe. Let's just say she is in my home in Blackfield, gathering her thoughts, while I am here in her stead. We have known each other for a long time, like I said, and there seems to be some sort of connection between us, which has brought about what one might call 'magic.' I was able to speak to Jane through the mirror, but I cannot explain how this is possible. It is as if some line of communication has opened up between us. I think that is enough to digest for now…it is all a little bit out of this world."

Mr. Rochester was gazing deeply into my eyes, as if he were seeking the truth within them. "If I could only speak to Jane myself," he then said, "everything would be so much easier, but she is not here." He seemed genuinely sad. "For now, I do not know what to think. There are people who believe in witchcraft, but I am not one of them. If they do exist, witches are known to be evil-doers, but I am not a menacing man. Grace suggested I should lock you up with Bertha, but that would be like throwing you to the wolves, and it is certainly no feasible suggestion. I will, however, need to keep a close eye on you," Mr. Rochester said sternly, "and I would rather you ceased in teaching Adèle until I have made a decision. That is, as to whether you may prolong your stay here. I know nothing about you. I trusted you on a whim. Now, I am uncertain whether that was a mistake. I am not a man who is easily hoodwinked. Perhaps you have fooled me, but you seem honest, which is why I am inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, and I am sure stranger things have occurred in this world."

All the while he was speaking, Mr. Rochester seemed crestfallen somehow. He had an air about him that I had never seen before. It was because he was disappointed. He did seem to be willing to trust me, but he was also acting a little wary of me. When I didn't reply, Mr. Rochester sighed. "All I really wish for is for Jane to return to me," he said mournfully, "and if you can accomplish this, I will be forever in your debt. I will not question your methods of returning her to me, for I am desperate. As long as no harm comes to Jane-" his words drifted off, as if he believed harm could have already befallen her.

I quickly interrupted his train of thought. "Mr. Rochester," I said as sincerely as I could, "I promise I only have the best of intentions when it comes to you and Jane, but there are some things I have experienced, which cannot be explained by logic and reason." Mr. Rochester nodded, "Indeed," he said earnestly. Then he glanced at the mirror, walking towards it and running his fingers over the glass, as if he were caressing someone's face – one very particular someone. He really seemed to miss Jane. "Perhaps she is a fairy," he smiled wistfully, staring into the glass with a little smile on his face. "I wish she would show herself to me." I decided it was time for me to leave the room, as Mr. Rochester seemed to need a moment of privacy. As I headed downstairs, I could hear him whispering melancholically, "Jane…Jane! Oh! My Jane! My sweet little mustard seed! When will you return to me?" This was truly the last straw. It was now high time for me to get my act together.


	10. A Stitch in Time

**CHAPTER IX - A STITCH IN TIME...**

I certainly felt slightly relieved that I had been able to avoid a great shouting match with Mr. Rochester. The truth always came out in the end, and, in a way, I was no anomaly in this day and age, as people tended to believe in the supernatural. If this belief existed, it could be accepted by even the most rational-minded of people. The only problem was, that I was now no longer trusted implicitly by Mr. Rochester and had to be careful not to lose his trust entirely. It was like I was on probation. If there was any more 'funny business,' I might be thrown out. Well - or told politely to pack my bags and leave.

Before heading back to my room, I checked in on Adèle to let her know that I would not be teaching her for a few days. I thought that Sophie, her French nurse, could take over for a few days, at least when it came to Adèle's French lessons. I suggested Sophie teach Adèle a little about French history or work on her text production skills. I had started working on a French novel with Adèle, but she was bored very easily and it was difficult to capture her interest. Creative writing tasks would help her be able to delve deeper into the meaning of the novel and its characters.

Apart from the previous incident, the day unfolded fairly pleasantly, night time quickly approaching. Winter was upon us, as it was almost November. I felt like time was moving faster now, as there seemed to be fewer hours during the day due to the earlier onset of darkness. Now having little to occupy myself with, I spent my days reading and keeping my distance from Adèle, in order to respect Mr. Rochester's wishes, although I thought to myself that I could still play with her. I was not forbidden from seeing her entirely, after all. However, this activity was also frowned upon by the servants when they saw Adèle and myself having a picnic in the conservatory.

It dawned on me then that Grace Poole must have spread some rumours about me. I was treated like an irksome flee nobody dared come close to. In other words, I was disgraced by Grace (and yes - I do see the irony here.) That woman was far from graceful herself, and I began to loath her as time went on, but, of course, there was another matter at hand, which I had completely forgotten about due to my present predicament. Whatever had happened to Rochester's party of guests that were meant to arrive on this day? When I asked Mrs. Fairfax about it she claimed Mr. Rochester had never mentioned any such invitation to her. But I had witnessed the castle staff scurrying around frantically cleaning the house. What had all that trouble been for then?

"Well, me dear," cooed Mrs. Fairfax in her Yorkshire tongue, "that was on account of Mr. Rochester's return and also because the house was in need of a good old scrub." This was certainly strange. Why would Mr. Rochester pretend to have invited Blanche Ingram? I confronted him later that day after supper: "Mr. Rochester," I began, hoping not to make myself a nuisance, but I needed to know this now. I went on, "I noticed that your party of guests have not arrived yet like you said they would. Let me be frank, it puzzled me a great deal that you would invite Blanche Ingram of all people to this house. Why on Earth would you do such a thing when she is not the woman you truly care for and wish to marry?"

Mr. Rochester gazed at me stoically. "You are very observant, Miss. I must say." Then he smirked a little, "Perhaps there was no invitation after all…" I felt affronted. What was he playing at this time? However, I waited a moment before replying, letting the information sink in, so my reaction would be less passionate. I knew I needed to tread carefully and could not run around accusing Mr. Rochester of wrong-doing while I myself was presently in disgrace. I finally said, "I must confess that I am not surprised. Did you simply mean to rouse my anxiety or Jane's jealousy? Were you hoping I would pass on the message?" Mr. Rochester nodded briefly. I had given him an easy way out, I guess. "Something of the sort. I was not in my right mind, driven a little mad myself as I miss my Janet so. You see, I feel so terribly lonely these days. I wished I had some company, but I do not have any real friends in this world. Well – apart from Jane, that is. But I have nobody to confide in. When I rode off, I was not visiting Blanche. I was simply riding around aimlessly on my steed. Then I stayed in a local inn for a few nights."

I did not pursue the matter further, as I thought it did not really matter anyway. Blanche was not here, and that was the main thing, but I feared Mr. Rochester might really be able to damage his relationship with Jane if he was by himself too long. He was not as strong as Jane was when left alone, and he would eventually seek some other woman's company, even if he only did it to abate his own misery. I was afraid he would fall back into old habits. This was probably rather unlikely at present, but who knew how Mr. Rochester dealt with heartbreak.

"Ruby-" he then addressed me when I didn't reply. I had been too lost in thought to say anything. "You mentioned that you knew where Jane was staying. She is presently in your home, is she not?" Mr. Rochester asked. I nodded apprehensively, because I knew what was coming next. "Why did you keep this from me? We need to venture there on the morrow. I need to see her immediately." His face turned sullen. "Are you keeping us apart? All this time you knew where she was…" He stared at me in disbelief. I quickly corrected him before the situation escalated.

"No, no! Mr. Rochester, of course not! I am on your side, truly," I said this with as much sincerity as I could muster, seeing how angry Mr. Rochester was becoming. "You know," I have been thinking about this for a while now and I believe you to be here on Jane's behalf, certainly, but even if she wishes to be alone at present, I need to see her, for I am sure we can find a way to be happy together. I feel so…" his voice trailed off.

"Helpless?" I finished his sentence. "You feel helpless, don't you?" "Yes, Ruby. I do, indeed. It is a feeling I abhor." "Well, we shall travel to Blackfield, I promise you, but now is not a time to make rash decisions. Can you give Jane a few more days alone?" Mr. Rochester agreed, even if a little reluctantly. I spoke with him a little while longer to calm him down a bit. He was pacing up and down the dining hall, seeming agitated for a while, but by the end of our conversation he seemed to trust me again, at least enough to let me decide when we would return to Blackfield.

After our conversation, Mr. Rochester finally confided in Grace Poole that I had known about Bertha being in the attic all along, and that, at least on that front, I posed no threat. I overheard their conversation in the hallway: "I am not sure what her intentions are precisely, for she speaks in a rather enigmatic manner at times, but if my ability to judge someone's character – despite the strange circumstances – does not fool me, I believe we should give her the benefit of the doubt for now." Grace seemed to accept Mr. Rochester's word without complaint.

When he re-entered the dining room, I asked him, "There is another important matter-" "What is it Jane?" he interrupted me automatically. I was surprised to be addressed thus, but Mr. Rochester quickly corrected himself, "I mean _Ruby_. I beg your pardon." I let slip his little mistake, continuing, "Could you please tell the staff to stop gossiping about me? I feel like an intruder, somehow they now make me feel unwanted. If I am really a burden to you, I will not hesitate to leave, but I am on your side, truly. I am here to help you reunite with Jane. I am sure you are aware of that. I am not your enemy."

"Yes, I still believe that you must have come here for a reason. However strange some of the circumstances, I will give you a second chance, but if I feel even the smallest inkling that I cannot trust you, I am afraid we shall be forced to part." Mr. Rochester gave me an earnest look, then said, "And I will of course let Mrs. Fairfax know to set the servants straight. I never involve them in my decisions. I do not know how they got wind of my confusion where you are concerned."

"Thank you, Sir," I replied in relief. Of course, I knew exactly how the gossiping must have started, but I was willing to let it slide. To me, Grace Poole would always remain a suspicious figure. Everyone knows that if you tell one person some juicy piece of news, soon the whole staff will know. There are no secrets among servants. Gossiping was in their nature and I didn't blame them for it, only it now made me feel slightly uncomfortable. I did not want to step on anyone's toes.

I seemed to be in a tight spot now, because I was running out of options. Of course, I had no intention of taking Mr. Rochester on some road trip into the fictional town of Blackfield that might exist here. That was to be avoided at all costs. No - I needed to find my way back home. The next day, I even went back to the hedge to see if it would open up again, finding an excuse for Mr. Rochester to be nearby while I did so, but nothing happened. Perhaps I needed to be truly desperate to get back home. If there was a way into this world, there must be a way out of it. However, luckily, the solution would present itself to me sooner than I thought. The very next day, fate seemed to be on my side again. The events that were to transpire would lead us directly back to my hometown of Blackfield.

XXX

It all began with Bertha Mason having night terrors. She began screeching shrilly in the middle of the night from that day forth. Later I found out that she had started having nightmares again due to her belief that Jane was back in the house. She seemed to have overheard my conversation with her, as I had previously guessed, and she must have felt enraged with jealousy. She could, of course, never have guessed that Jane's voice had come from a mirror in the wall, serving as a gateway into my world. How could anyone?

After what was obviously a horrible night for everyone, I could hardly get out of bed the next morning. I was to begin teaching Adèle again with Sophie as my chaperone. She was to make sure I was doing my job correctly, even though Mr. Rochester trusted me for the most part. I actually believe he only wanted to keep Grace Poole quiet by showing her he was being more careful. If Grace herself had the time, she herself would have wanted to supervise my lessons. How ridiculous! As if I was somehow contaminating Adèle's young mind.

The next few days passed by in a fairly routinely manner, but Bertha's nightly screaming sessions did not end. Every morning I was tired due to my lack of sleep. Every night Bertha terrorised the entire household with her shouting and bellowing matches. After a few days had gone by in this manner, I began to feel like I was reliving the same day on a loop. Nothing seemed to improve for me in the daytime, as I was still not fully trusted, and every night I was denied the rest I so badly needed.

A form of action needed to be taken. Why on Earth had nobody told Bertha that Jane was not here anymore? I was sure they could convince Bertha that hearing Jane's voice was simply a figment of her imagination. In any event, Grace began hating me, because I seemed to be the cause for Bertha's night terrors having set in again. If I had not been looking for a portal in the attic and talked to Jane through the mirror, Bertha would probably never have heard her voice. I wondered if Grace had even liked Jane, but I remembered that Jane had also always been wary of Grace, a woman who seemed quite unconventional herself. To me, she seemed rather pig-headed, and, as I was beginning to experience, merciless. Once she mistrusted someone, there seemed to be no way to regain her trust. Then again, she seemed to forgive Bertha her madness, but perhaps she saw this woman as blameless due to her mental issues.

After about a week, Bertha seemed to have calmed down a bit, but I was growing more and more agitated. Even when Bertha's night terrors ceased at last, I felt like I was overstaying my welcome, but at the same time, I did not know how to escape. I was now finally able to catch up on sleep, and I really enjoyed the blissful silence when she stopped screaming at long last, but, as it turned out, this was not the last of Bertha's shenanigans. Soon everyone at Thornfield Hall would be in grave danger.


	11. Playing with Fire

**CHAPTER X - PLAYING WITH FIRE**

After several nights had passed by peacefully, I thought we had surpassed the worst of Bertha's fits, but it turned out the worst was yet to come. One morning I woke up in a cold sweat around dawn. There was no apparent reason for this. All I knew was that I felt tense with anguish. There was a quenching feeling of unease in my stomach. It was as if I knew danger loomed ahead. Despite the house now seeming silent, I had been rudely yanked out of my repose by some unknown source. What could possibly have been the reason for my uneasiness?

I felt endangered somehow and my instincts were on high alert. I sat bolt upright on my bed, as if I was a puppet, yanked up by its strings. My instincts seemed to have taken over. I felt like I was no longer in control of my own body. Somehow, I must have subconsciously felt that danger was nigh. My room was still fairly dark, because the curtains were still drawn.

I hastened out of bed to open the curtains. Outside, the moon was shining brightly. A beam of moonlight now illuminated my room, as if a magic spell had been cast. Its peaceful glow made me feel comforted and soothed for a moment. Just when I was beginning to wonder if I was still dreaming, I heard a clanking noise just outside my room. Hesitant to make a move, I stood rooted to the spot, too afraid to face what might be lurking outside in the hallway.

My heart was pounding fiercely in my chest. A female voice was mumbling to herself in front of my door, cackling under her breath. Yes! It was indeed a woman who was lurking nearby. This must be Bertha Mason. Now I could hear her fiddling with the lock on my door.

When I heard a faint clicking sound, I jumped back into bed quickly, knowing the intruder was about to enter my room. I decided to pretend to be asleep. If this was indeed Bertha Mason, I would not want to alarm her.

I knew she was no killer, but she might feel the need to harm me, if she felt I could pose a threat to her. Perhaps Bertha's intention was solely to frighten me, but I could not be sure if she was up to something more sinister. I suppose she must have stolen a spare key to my room from Grace Poole's keyring. I could not imagine how she was otherwise able to get in, unless she had a knack for picking locks.

XXX

I wondered what Bertha was up to. Was it simply to give me a fright or to assess whom she was dealing with? If she was jealous of me, then I would have to watch my back. The door opened then, creaking eerily as a creeping figure entered my room. I heard Bertha's faint footsteps tapping around on the floorboards, which led me to believe she was barefoot. She seemed to be opening cupboard doors and drawers and rummaging through piles of clothing. I heard her floating about the room like a poltergeist. What was it that she was searching for so intently?

Bertha grew quiet for a moment and I could feel her approaching the bed. Her shadow was cast onto my face as she stood over me, blocking out the moonlight for a moment, which had previously illuminated my face. My eyelids fluttered involuntarily at the sudden change in lighting, but I hoped Bertha wouldn't notice. She loomed over me threateningly for quite a while, coming ever closer. One time her nose almost touched mine; her rank, hot breath billowing against my cheeks. She puffed a gust of it onto my face, almost as if she were trying to provoke a reaction out of me. It took everything I had not to cringe in disgust, but I remained calm and succeeded in fooling her that I was sleeping.

I wondered, though, what Bertha was playing at. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable as I lay motionless on the hard mattress. To me, Bertha was an instinctual creature, quite animalistic in nature, which was the very reason I feared her. The way she had sniffed and snorted her way around the room reminded me of a wild animal, unhinged and out of control. Bertha, too, was a creature run by her instincts. She was supposedly savage as well, but I wondered sometimes if she was simply misunderstood. Perhaps she had grown increasingly frustrated due to her mental illness, which was not treated adequately. Hence, she had perhaps suffered unnecessarily. Mr. Rochester had thought it a kindness to keep her at Thornfield Hall, but what was kind about locking someone up in the attic, isolating them from social contacts, from living a real and meaningful life?

I believe Bertha would have needed professional care in order to get well again, or at least, to be able to feel like a human being once more, but Mr. Rochester treated her like an animal, so she essentially became one. Bertha was definitely an unpredictable person, though, which was why I had taken a leaf out of any animal's book, using the method most animals would resort to when in danger: I was basically playing dead. That way, I would seem unthreatening and hopefully no harm would come to me.

I must have played my part well, too, for Bertha quickly seemed bored with staring at me. Perhaps because it did not have the desired effect: intimidation. She may also have left my bedside simply because she seemed convinced now that I was sleeping. As Bertha headed back to her search through my things, it occurred to me that Jane's old stuff was still here as well (as I was sleeping in Jane's old room), and that I had briefly glimpsed her wedding dress hanging at the back of the large oak cupboard one time. This was a cupboard I wasn't really making use of, my belongings being limited to one grey gown and my clothes from home.

It dawned on me that Bertha might be searching for Jane's wedding dress. If so, then we were all in grave danger. After a few more minutes, Bertha suddenly exclaimed in delight and giggled gleefully. She must have found what she was looking for. Next I knew, she was shuffling back into the hallway, dragging a long piece of clothing behind her. When the door finally shut with a soft "click," I sighed in relief. I waited a moment to make sure Bertha was out of earshot. When I could no longer hear her scuffling along back to the attic, dragging the wedding dress behind her, I jumped out of bed again, covering myself with a flannel nightgown before heading for the door. There was no time to lose.

* * *

The first person on my mind was Adèle. The whole house would have to be evacuated. I hastened to Adèle's room and brought her to Mrs. Fairfax, whom I woke next, all the while mumbling something about an impending fire and everyone needing to get the hell out of the building now (or something to that effect.) I was clearly upset and felt like the urgency of the situation was not coming across to Mrs. Fairfax at first, but she did as I asked in the end.

Although she seemed slightly puzzled, Mrs. Fairfax did not ask me too many questions and seemed to take my warning seriously. She began by informing the maids, then headed to Grace Poole's bedroom who was snoozing there peacefully. Once that was done, and Mrs Fairfax was about to wake Mr. Rochester, I told her that I would take care of him. She should make sure everyone else was safely outside, we would soon follow. "Alright, my dear," Mrs. Fairfax said calmly, "I know how much Mr. Rochester trusts you, so I will first make sure all the castle staff is safe. You take care of the master."

Mrs. Fairfax then proceeded to wake all the servants and usher them outside. Most of them joined her willingly, but some protested, eager to do their jobs and help. Grace Poole also lingered, saying she wanted to see to the matter herself. She was Bertha's caretaker after all, but I knew that this could end fatally, therefore almost begging the woman to head to safety, but she would not budge, so I took her along with me, as I headed to Mr. Rochester's bedchamber. On the way there, Grace headed directly to the attic while I woke Mr. Rochester.

I shook him roughly, shouting his name. When he woke, he was briefly disoriented and looked at me dazedly: "What the blazes-?" he grumbled angrily.

"Mr. Rochester. It is urgent," I panted, "You have to listen to me. We are all in grave danger. Bertha is about to set the house on fire. I know this for a fact."

When Mr. Rochester looked at me in disbelief, seeming angered further, I went on, "Mr. Rochester, Jane told you to trust me. You said that you did. Please remember that. I know it sounds crazy, but I know your story and how it is meant to be. Now come. Grace is already in the attic. See for yourself."

Mr. Rochester must have decided it was better to be safe than sorry, for he replied, "What about Mrs. Fairfax and the others?"

"All safe, Sir," I answered. Then Mr. Rochester suddenly seemed to be taken over by some higher power, for he began staring at me robotically, before grabbing his shirt and trousers and rushing off to the attic. Perhaps the realisation had struck him, that it was very possible for Bertha to act out like this. She had set his bed on fire before, after all.

I followed Mr. Rochester as fast as I could. "We need to leave as fast as we can!" I yelled, thinking all the while of Jane and my responsibility in this moment to make sure Mr. Rochester left the building unscathed, but he had his own mind. As I grew close the attic, I could already smell smoke in the hallway. This did not stop Mr. Rochester from running upstairs, quickly skipping up the steps.

I came upon a chaotic scene. A fire already seemed to have been kindled. Bertha Mason was struggling by the window. Grace Poole was attempting to hold her back while Bertha attempted to set fire to Jane's wedding dress, straining to let the burning candle she was holding come into contact with the fabric. The dress had already been singed in various places. There were black-rimmed circles on the corset of the dress in various places. It seemed the veil had already been set alight, but Grace or Mr. Rochester must have succeeded in putting out the fire, for now the veil lay like a skeleton on the floor, the fabric having been charred to pieces. It was lying near the curtain, which covered the panelling on one of the walls. As I gazed in that direction, it occurred to me how quickly this room could be burnt down, if the curtain were set alight.

Presently, Grace was still struggling with Bertha, attempting to hold her down, but Bertha clearly had the upper hand, almost having broken free. She shouted: "I will burn this house down and everyone in it!" Her voice was gruff and hoarse from all the shouting she must have done beforehand. "No, you won't!" Mr. Rochester bellowed as if scolding a child, striding across the room and ripping the dress from Bertha's grasp. When Grace looked up at him in surprise, he said gravely, "I will take care of her," ripping the candle out of Bertha's hands and holding her hands behind her back. "Grace," Mr. Rochester said, "leave now please! Hurry outside!" I was surprised when Grace obeyed the orders without question, leaving the room, but Bertha would simply not stop fighting. I worried that Mr. Rochester would lose his grip on the woman.

Then he took notice of me standing in the corner and shouted: "Ruby! What are you doing? Get out now! Go with Grace!" He sounded exasperated, but even though I would have liked nothing more than to scurry off like the timid little mouse I sometimes was, I knew Mr. Rochester needed me now. I also knew that I would have to get over my fear of the blotchy-faced woman by the window with those deep purple rings under her eyes and her straggly, long black hair - the madwoman who was causing all this ruckus.

* * *

Bertha truly did look monstrous in this moment, and she was cunning too. She took the chance she had when Mr. Rochester slightly loosened his grip on her wrists while talking to me. As she struggled, she grabbed the candle, which was now standing on the windowsill, lit it with a burning match and threw it on top of the dress, letting the flame lick across the fabric. The dress immediately caught fire. In the kafuffle of Mr. Rochester trying to reach the woollen blanket Grace had previously used to put out the fire, Bertha ran free with the candle with a wild look in her eye, now setting fire to the curtain, now to the furniture.

We had to act fast now. The curtain could be parted in the middle and as the left side was still unscathed, I ripped it aside to reveal the panelling on the wall. The right side of the curtain was slowly being consumed by an angry flame, spreading ever faster. The smoke was now invading my lungs, as it permeated the air. Bertha cackled maniacally, rushing back to the window, as she watched Mr. Rochester throw the blanket over the dress to abate the flame, but it had risen too high now and had begun eating its way across the floorboards. In an act of desperation, and because I was already standing by the panelled wall, I pushed against the panelling once more, as I had done once before on my night time journey to the attic, but this time the panel yielded. "Mr. Rochester!" I shouted, seeing my actual house in Blackfield, my living room in fact, on the other side of the doorway. "We have to get out of here!"

Smoke was now engulfing the entire room. In an act of complete insanity, Bertha ripped open the window, fuelling the fire, which now billowed towards the ceiling. I could hardly see Mr. Rochester anymore, but I took a few steps towards him, as I saw he was inclined to rescue Bertha, who was obviously going to jump, because she stood by the window ledge determinedly, shouting "Free at last!" I grabbed Mr. Rochester by the hand, pulling him away from her, "You have to let her go. She doesn't want to be saved."

Then I pushed him through the portal into my home in Blackfield, before stepping through myself. We were just in time, too. I took a brief look back, only to see Bertha step onto the ledge, about to jump. The flames were already too high and my view was obscured, but that I could make out. I do not know to this day if I made the right decision by forcing Rochester to leave Bertha alone, but I have to live with that decision now. The door snapped shut behind me immediately once I had stepped through.

I panted and coughed. Mr. Rochester was bending over catching his breath. Our clothes and faces were grey with ash, our hair thick with smoke. But, just as suddenly as the onslaught of coughing had begun, my lungs suddenly cleared of smoke and I could breathe again. Mr. Rochester must have experienced the same sensation, for he suddenly straightened up in wonder. His clothes were also rapidly returning to their former splendour until we both stood there as good as new, me in my nightgown, Mr. Rochester in his proper attire. We looked veritably pristine. "What in the…?" Mr. Rochester exclaimed. I did not stop to think about what had just happened for too long, because I was still reeling from the sheer terror I had previously felt.

"Here," I said to Mr. Rochester, "sit down." Jane must have been alerted by the commotion, for she came rushing into the living room, her face flushed. "Ruby! Oh, Ruby! You're back," she exclaimed, embracing me tightly. Then she took notice of Mr. Rochester sitting on the sofa, looking slightly stunned.

"Edward," she coaxed, "oh, Edward!" He looked up at her in amazement and pulled her towards him in a long and slightly awkward embrace, ending up with Jane falling onto Rochester's lap. Mr. Rochester chortled slightly. "Jane! My pale little elf! Is it really you?"

He was back. Good old Rochester was back! And I was finally home. I could not put into words how relieved I now felt, but I was also entirely overwhelmed by everything that had happened. I sunk heavily onto the sofa next to Mr. Rochester to catch my breath. I couldn't believe I was finally home! At long last, I was really home!


	12. Home Sweet Home

**A/N** **:** The idea of writing a story of a 21st century girl suddenly landing in the world of fiction, sprung from the BBC mini series "Lost in Austen". I felt like it had to be done again. This time for my favourite novel "Jane Eyre."I'm excited to hear your thoughts on what I've written so far.

 **Disclaimer :** I do not own the plot or the characters of "Jane Eyre". They belong to the wonderful Charlotte Brontë. The main idea is based on "Lost in Austen".

Thanks for your reviews and general support. Enjoy!

* * *

 **CHAPTER XI - HOME SWEET HOME**

Once Mr. Rochester and Jane had finished rejoicing over their union, Jane now placed demurely on Mr. Rochester's lap, wearing some of my clothes (which did not faze me too much, as we had passed bizarre at this point.)

Mr. Rochester had many questions to ask, Jane filling him in on past events little by little from the moment she had run away from him and Thornfield Hall to our arrival in this house.

Jane began by telling Mr. Rochester how she had found her way into my backyard through the hedge, how I had stepped through into Victorian England and what she had occupied herself with during the time I was gone. She gushed about how she had experienced this new world, which seemed to fascinate her quite.

It turned out I must have been gone for several months, my father having sent out a search party, but eventually coming around to believing Jane's story.

"Where is my father now, Jane?" I asked her.

"He is still at work, I believe," she replied. I called my father immediately, feeling guilty that I had been so wrapped up in my own head and this "mission," that I had completely neglected thinking of him and how he must presently be feeling. Once I had given my father a call, assuring him that I was safe, we all decided to head into the kitchen, for Jane had just cooked dinner.

A strange feeling overcame me as we went in there together, like I had finally found a true family. As Jane stood there by the stove, I almost felt like she was a mother-figure to me. I had certainly always looked up to her, and yes, she was presently a little younger than me, but her story was much older and so was her soul. I dare not say it, but Mr. Rochester and Jane were almost like my second parents.

I know this is a bizarre thought, but in that moment while I sat at the kitchen table eating with the both of them, I felt so comfortable and safe, like I was somehow complete or had found what was missing - a home. This must all have to do with growing up without a mother. I am sure that is the source of my often feeling so lost, but enough talk of the past. I could think about the meaning of all of this later. I needed to move forward first.

After dinner, I busied myself with tidying the kitchen to give Mr. Rochester and Jane some more time to catch up, joining them later to fill in the details Jane had missed while I was at Thornfield. A few hours passed by in this form.

By the end of the conversation, Mr. Rochester finally turned to me, "You know, Miss," he began, addressing me with a sly look in his eye, "you never told me why you were visiting Jane in the first place. At the time, I still believed it was all a coincidence that Jane ran away the moment you arrived, but never would I have linked the two occurrences. Never would I have guessed that what brought you here was Jane's running away."

"And her landing in my backyard," I laughed heartily. "Yes," Mr. Rochester said smiling, "but, again, I ask you, what would you have told me if I had asked you why you were visiting Jane? Would you have invented a plausible reason, or would you have simply said that you hadn't seen her in such a long time that you could not go on without having laid eyes on her?" Mr. Rochester posed his question half-jokingly, but I must admit that I had in fact thought of an appropriate response.

"Well," I answered, facing Mr. Rochester earnestly, "actually there is something that Jane isn't aware of that she should know, a piece of information she missed out on receiving due to her running through the door in the hedge.

You see," I explained, "Jane should have had a lot of trouble in leaving you. She would have half-starved to death on the Yorkshire Moors, then in the end, she would have been taken in by a clergyman called St. John Rivers, who would turn out to be her cousin. Jane would have received a letter there, informing her that this St. John was her cousin and that her uncle had passed away, leaving her with a substantial inheritance."

I looked at Mr. Rochester earnestly, continuing, "Her aunt Reed had, of course, always told her that she had no relatives left to speak of. So, I would have said that I had come to pass on this message. I had even thought about trying to find this St. John at Moore House, but I believe the information in itself would have already been enough. And now that we are all here," I glanced at Rochester, then Jane, whose eyes I had avoided meeting until now, "I am happy I could let you know about all this. I am sure St. John will find you, Jane, once you head back, or you could head out and look for him. You are now equipped with the information of his name and I know he lives in a place called Marsh End, so I am sure it is possible for you to seek him out."

Facing Mr. Rochester, I continued, "I beg your pardon, I have not answered your question exactly, Sir. If you had asked me why I had come to visit Jane, I would have claimed that I had come bearing information that would greatly change Jane's life. I would use the information I just bestowed on you as my excuse of why I was visiting Jane, pretending to be the messenger who would have informed Jane of her inheritance, being the bearer of good news. I am not sure how plausible this would have been, and I would have told Jane eventually, but in all the confusion it slipped my mind."

I turned to Jane, saying triumphantly: "That is why I am happy to have been given the chance to tell you now, Jane." She beamed back at me.

"Well, it seems there is a reason for us to return to Thornfield, after all!" she sounded delighted.

"I was wondering how I would be able to decide, if given to chance, whether to stay here, in this gloriously modern world, or whether to head back home to my little life."

"If you are meant to go back, you will find a way," I said assuredly. "That is how everything has happened until now. All of this seems to have a purpose-"

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Rochester interrupted me. "The purpose was you, Ruby. You brought us back together, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart." I could have shouted out "group hug!" in that moment and it would have been hilariously funny in my mind, but I refrained from following this inclination, as neither Jane nor Edward would find this very amusing, now would they, dear reader?

"I would like to see this wonderful new world you were gushing so much about, dearest Janet, while we still have the chance. Let us go for a stroll outside and explore!" Mr. Rochester suggested gleefully.

And so, I said my goodbyes to the both of them, not knowing that this was the last time I would see them again.

You see, they were never to return once they had left the house, heading for the town centre - but, because I lacked this knowledge, our goodbyes lacked the heavy burden of finality. I simply wished them well and told them to enjoy themselves, giving each of them a big hug.

I never would have guessed that this would be the end, but as I waited for them to come back, even ringing Jane's Blackberry a few times (my previous phone), which she had taken to town with her, so we could stay in contact in case of emergency. When hour after hour passed by and it finally grew dark, I decided I needed to jump to action.

Perhaps something had happened to the both of them or maybe they had lost their way. I was beside myself with worry at this point. Jane hadn't answered any of my calls, so I headed outside myself without further ado.

XXX

At this point my father had returned home, so he joined me as I walked into town. I remember thinking that it was a small place, so Jane and Mr. Rochester could not have gone very far. It was only about six pm, but as it was winter time, it was already fairly dark outside.

We asked passers-by if they had seen Jane and Mr. Rochester, describing them in as much detail as we could, and a few of them remarked that they had seen a rather old-fashioned gentleman and a fair, young girl walking about town. They seemed to have last been seen near a bookshop.

Word travelled fast in small towns when anything or anyone out of the ordinary was sighted and, luckily for me, my two friends seemed to have stuck in people's memories.

When we reached the bookshop, I instinctively knew what must have happened, for Jane had dropped her Blackberry inside the shop. I found this out by asking the shopkeeper if he had seen an old-fashioned gentleman and a young girl in the shop, perhaps asking specifically for the novel "Jane Eyre." This was what must have happened, for the shopkeeper seemed quite baffled when he recalled: "The two of them asked if we sold the novel Jane Eyre. Yes, they did," the man said nodding.

"But it was very strange." he had a puzzled look on his face. "What do you mean, Sir?" I asked curiously. He replied: "It was so strange, because they did leaf through the book for a while and seemed quite taken with it, fascinated even. They were huddled in the reading corner over there, giggling like schoolchildren," the shopkeeper said, pointing towards that very spot, then continued, "but when I turned around for one moment, they had suddenly disappeared, the book still lying open on the bench where they had been sitting before. They must have left in a rush, because the young girl had dropped her phone."

The man paused, then whispered, "But I swear I heard the slightest _swooshing_ sound when they disappeared, as if they had simply evaporated into thin air in a gehusst of wind. It left me with chills running down my spine," the man said, seeming slightly shaken up by the experience.

He handed me the Blackberry when he realised it was mine. "But I never saw them disappear," the man continued. "Maybe they were ghosts," he laughed.

I ended up buying the copy of _Jane Eyre_ that Jane and Rochester had been reading, just in case, but I knew that they were gone for good now. I just had a feeling.

Still, I had the book as a souvenir, even if nothing else came of it. Mr. Rochester and Jane must have literally been sucked back into the novel.

I had to trust that this was what had happened, so I could get some form of closure, and I hoped that the both of them were safe there. Of course, the evening didn't end before my father and I had searched high and low.

We continued walking about town, looking for Rochester and Jane, but even when we shouted out their names, reminiscent of how Mr. Rochester calls out for Jane in the novel, it was all to no avail.

By the end of the night, I told myself that I had to accept that my little adventure was over now and that I had to find a way to move on, even if our parting had been a tad abrupt.

As I lay in my own soft bed again, staring outside at the moonlight, streaming in through the gap in the curtains, I almost felt like Jane was with me again. Perhaps, in this moment she, too, was looking up at the moon, thinking of me.

When I finally drifted off to sleep, I felt content. It was in this world that I belonged, but I had a long way to go before I would truly find myself.

Until then, I would need to begin by appreciating what I already had.

* * *

 **A/N:** Now that you've come this far, please leave a review! :) Thank you for your support and constructive criticism.


	13. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Jane and Mr. Rochester landed back on solid nineteenth-century ground with a thud. "Ouch!" cried Jane. "Where the blazes are we?" thundered Mr. Rochester, almost simultaneously. They looked around and realised they were back at Thornfield Hall. The moon was shining brightly in the sky, like a halo protecting the two of them.

"Oh no!" Jane blurted out. "We never got to say goodbye properly! Ruby will be wondering what has happened to us." Mr. Rochester gave Jane's shoulders a squeeze. "She'll be fine," he said confidently. He got up cautiously, wincing, as a searing pain raced down his back.

They had landed on the fields just beyond Thornfield Hall and could see the now almost entirely burnt down building in the distance. Mr. Rochester sighed heavily, feeling torn between feelings of mournful longing, regret and newfound hope. If the building was burnt down, all the memories in it were too. He could have a fresh start, but he also felt the necessity to mourn the loss of Bertha.

Jane stood next to him silently, lost in thought herself. She recalled one of the chapters of Jane Eyre they had peeked into in the bookshop. It had claimed that Mr. Rochester would go blind in an attempt to save Bertha, but he was now healthy as a horse and had evaded this fate. Jane felt an immense sense of thankfulness overcome her. She could still not fathom why she had been sent into the future, the real world as it were, but she knew it was all to teach her a lesson. A part of their suffering had been lifted due to the change in their narrative. Jane did not half starve to death while running away from Mr. Rochester and her dearest Edward did not lose his sight. She could not explain what the meaning of these changes was, but she did not complain at the outcome events had taken, either.

Almost unwillingly, Jane asked Mr. Rochester the question she was most afraid of thinking about: "Can you believe we are simply characters in a story?" "Oh, dear Jane," said Rochester soothingly, "We cannot live our lives like that. Our lives are valuable, just like anyone else's. And this is our world. This is where we belong." "I am certain you are right," Jane said, but at the back of her mind she could not unsee what she had seen in Ruby's Blackfield. So many devices and machines. So many new inventions that made life so much easier. Talking picture boxes called televisions, communication devices called mobile phones, machines run by electricity or fuelled by gas. Aeroplanes and cars and high speed internet and female doctors! There had been so much to learn, so much to take in – and now she was back here, Jane felt slightly stunted. Jane did not know what to make of any of it. She was sure of one thing; however, and that was that she would find a way to invite Ruby to her wedding, at least to send a letter to let Ruby know she and Edward were alive and well.

Then Mr. Rochester uttered an equally unutterable thought: "Imagine if we had looked at the last chapter of our story," he laughed sinisterly. "Now that would have been interesting, wouldn't it?" Jane cringed and her mind began to race. Was their story actually limited to the pages of a book? What if the story did not cover their entire lives, would they still continue existing? These were all questions she could not deal with presently, but she felt a little delirious at the thought that their lives were not their own. In the end, however, she was sure it would all work out. They would simply have to write their own story from now on. It was in their hands now what happened next…


End file.
